Peering through a frosted pane
At nearly ten to five,
Looking out across the lane
To catch the van arrive.
Behold two hundred twenty cartons
Of everything we own.
I wish that I had packed my heart
In a crate of styrofoam.

Wading through the symphony
Of sunny yesterday,
Save selected memories
And toss the rest away.
The soon forgotten photographs
That won't be hiding in the attic anymore.

"Come on, really. What's the use?
Now don't you follow me."
Silences a sad excuse for an apology.
"There's no need to weep or whine, dear,
Cause I can guarantee
They won't treat your precious china
The way you treated me."