I sit in a house that is not my own.
In the disarray of a life that is in
transition. There are shirts
on hangers; textbooks; a pillar of
pink, physically therapeutic foam;
the accumulation of a man's life
that is built for transition.
The man packs these things in his
silver four-door, when he receives a call.
"Yep, just packing up to move in with my cousin..."
"I think it's a good choice. Don't want
to make any commitments with
my life in flux right now..."
"Just about have my life packed up..."
His life, packed in boxes and bags,
is tangible, measurable, like the speed of his car.
There is nothing in doubt or superfluous.
Just the confidence of ownership. And the
unwanted bits can simply be thrown out.
Surely, as one of those shirts says,
'Life is good.'