November 6, 2014


The house is silent,
relieved we're going,
our furniture
will be sold
in second-hand stores;
everything else
we're leaving behind.

Each room 
echoes the past,
who was saved,
who's been betrayed,
how someone is thought
to be out of his mind.

Our mail
is addressed
to an unknown name,
envelopes marked urgent,
please respond,
anxiously awaiting
your reply.

The postman gives me
another look,
wondering if
I am who I say,
if the letter he holds
can really be mine.