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
Then I remember that
This is not my home.
It's only temporary,