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
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