The Storage Facility
Our Personal Smithsonian
Every room is a storage facility
Hoarders living here for generations,
We could think of it as a museum
A personal Smithsonian
Objects we never needed are piled one on top of the other.
Papers and books are scattered in the chaos,
Floppy disks I can’t bare to get rid of, hidden away in a file cabinet drawer
Zip drives, memories captured in those bags-upon-bags.
I had a thing for rolling bags I could throw over my shoulder and smaller ones Fitting neatly around my waist
Boxes with labels from the Brothers labeler
Piled up, we were into make-believe order.
One room has a lot of pillows, how could we possibly explain ourselves
And why should we even bother?
What would we do if we had to move quickly, what if we were in danger? What if we have to flee overnight?
Every room could be transported, thrown in the back of a truck.
Driven to a warehouse
What will it cost, can we afford a warehouse/?
Every room is a storage facility
I need a love affair, I need to calm down.
Sadly, he just won’t do it.
