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Free Entry 1, Week 6

Moving

I grew up finger painting and scarring the strapped load
peeking over the bed of this Ford, cruise control on 75, missing wiper blade,
tires that couldn’t hold a penny. Illegally in the HOV,
I cut through four lanes for trouble, off the pike
to a continuous left through two lights, hurried South
to the curb of our faded, thirty year old house.
I needed the ratty welcome mat that doesn’t welcome anymore.
You fired up that fucking Ford and hauled our
one legged kitchen table with four feet, four chairs with four legs,
dark as dry blood grain
mashed potato coated seats
but maybe this trip is your first to a side of town I can’t find.
Maybe you didn’t expect to rush past me amid your leaving.
Maybe I still have three trips to catch you
clearing out the first floor of the house.
I broke the strap to that.
Ate that at age 3.
I must thank your forgetfulness and the second floor furniture,
but how could you not employ Mayflower to cover and tow away the furnish
I grew up with? Why did we move into my parents place?
I’d recognize that wood grain and paint job anywhere.

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