all these little things
its so funny
how all the little things don’t count in the end.
i came upon this revelation
on a summer’s day
of packing. with sunburned, sticky arms
i raise books and toss them in dry
brown carton boxes: this is my own
modus operandi, my own fighting of boredom.
and i scavenge through old homework
papers, and diaries from the fifth grade
and a profusion of aged lemondrop-colored notebooks
bursting from newly opened cabinets.
all these little things
will be thrown away, tossed off—
old papers, old memories, old friendships—
that (maybe certainly) took hours to construct.
and now
it is all washed away
like water from stone.
