Moving Day

The last of the boxes packed

Stacked against the wall.

All of my belongings wrapped

In newspaper and tissue, and labeled

"Fragile", kind of like me…

All of my posters rolled up,

Leaving the off-white walls barren

And impersonal, like they've never been

Inhabited by bands or movie characters,

Or had drawings tacked all over them.

On the last day before we leave,

I pry up the loose floorboard

Where my bed once was, and pull out

A box covered in dust and dirt,

Look through it silently and wonder…

Will I be the last to call this

Home?

Then I remember that

This is not my home.

It's only temporary,

Isn't it?