The Things That Spill Out

There are perhaps, not enough boxes,
enough places carefully labeled and set aside,
perhaps in closets, perhaps in plain view
to hold it all.

And so, it spills out.
Makes a mess. Becomes a thing you trip on,
making the simplest journey
an invitation to fall.

About this poem

About stuff. About trauma and baggage,

The picture was taken at one of my favorite kinda antique shops in Turners Falls, Mass: Loot.

Tom