Moving

Moving is like digging out one's entrails

To examine the last night's supper

Appreciating the meat and wondering at all the rice

Peas are pretty green but pellet like.

I am wasted by the effort of the past

Would torch the collected wealth and start again

Appreciating bulemia,

Feeling sick with the braille of memory,

Wondering who gave me this gift and why am I keeping it.

When ever will I read this erudite book that I carry

Move to move to move?

When will I sew this button on this jacket

That is too valuable to replace but I never use.

Like the out of dated disco clothes that I kept as costume,

My life fading to carnival as I admit to my gypsey self.

And technologies of memory without devices to

Support the various outdated platforms of a careless computer age.

Planned obsolescence beside hand written cards for birthdays

And names of loved ones now dead.

The present wisdom is to forget and move on.

But I'm not the svelte work out of gym craze

Instead get my exercise carrying bits of my life in boxes

Back and forth to a truck .

I will hold myself in the storage locker

A museum archive of self.

I hope it is over before my saniety loses touch with today

Trapped in the recesses of yesterday.

There is little I am taking on to my new place.

A wigwam in a new forest as I am a nomad now

Long ago leaving the attic and garage world

Of communities and neighbourhoods

Come at last to being lean and mean and light

With creches of supplies and stored treasures.

I'm moving on.