It is a constant struggle,
knowing what to keep,
and what to let go,
the painful honesty that most of it
you never use,
never are touched by,
at least not in healthy ways.
so it becomes a familiar poison,
but poison nonetheless.
About this poem
About stuff. About the stuff we carry in our hearts. About whatever familiar poison infects each of us.
I took the picture down in Florida in the strange hodgepodge house we stayed in during my son’s graduation.