by Isabel Brome Gaddis
I haven’t lived in this little room for long
but it’s already filled with my stuff
the way an hourglass fills with sand.
I wonder which things
will still be with me
when I die,
and who will be left to decide
what is a keepsake
what is sellable
and what is junk.
As a mental experiment
I imagine it all in boxes, ready for Goodwill,
and find that I am most attached to paintings
and to sculptures,
but only the ones I’ve bought,
not the ones I’ve made.
I wonder if this means
I didn’t put enough of myself
into the things I’ve made
but decide it’s more like
the way
it’s OK to ignore your own family
as long as you’re polite to guests.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing