Box of Rocks
I have moved house countless times,
and every time
I get the feeling more and more,
that those close to me
are getting sick of helping.
Growing older is a funny thing
as you seem to acquire so much shit,
and although I keep trying to get rid of stuff
and only keep the things I truly treasure,
it still keeps finding its way to me.
And of course, there’s the stuff
you’re not allowed to get rid of.
Grandmothers’ China.
A random collection of brass ornaments.
The antique furniture.
So I asked my mother;
if we can’t get rid of these items,
does she want any of them?
“No”, she replies, “I don’t have space.”
Oh.
So, the last time I moved,
I got whatever reluctant help
I could gather,
and besides the guilt furniture,
which was moved in a lorry by someone else,
I only have boxes
of my most treasured possessions.
