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."