Boxes Full Of Good Things

Drag out the boxes
from the corners of the spare room
and go through them
semi-methodically,
sorting the still-good
from the chaff
that may have been good at one time
but now is simply extra; even if it still
has merit or might again,
it can’t stay. 

Put that to one side
along with the always-was-bad,
the unbelievable relics
that make you wonder
what you were thinking — ten year old
Newsweeks with no apparent appeal,
unmarked stained printer paper,
pens from companies long out of business
for which they don’t even make refills.

And now, in your hand,
the junk switchblade that doesn’t work
because the wire spring comes free of the hilt
when the button’s pushed
and cuts into your palm…was this
a high school blade or something purchased
long afterward as some token
of how dangerous you still believed you were?
That date is lost now, fossilized
in the silt of your brainpan.  Maybe you’ll remember
someday; put it in the pile to be saved.

The yellow trash bags fill
and are moved to the kitchen
to wait for the morning’s curbside pickup.
You come back and stare at the room
a long time.  Have you made a dent?
You’ve made a dent, you’re sure of it.
Box up the leftovers and put them away
on a just cleared shelf.  That’s better.
That’s so much more what you want it
to look like in there.