Side of the box says "Pack like the Pros!"
At 12:12am on the last day in the house where you raised your children,
So tired you fell asleep twice on the kitchen floor,
Between the beans and the box of sugar cones already covered in powdery mildew;
You won't find out until you unpack it 3 months from now.

Pack like the prose,
Dense as the molasses tastes like corn syrup
Slick upstep salesman -
You brought me here, but I stayed.
If that isn't a poem, I don't know what is.

I don't like to crinkle the paper around the bowl edges, just lay it down in layers.
Layers on layers, corners fanning out in every direction.

I don't think I have enough boxes. Or if I did, the strength to carry them. Everything just kept piling up somehow. Now where will it go?

This isn't a poem.

I don't know what is.