poetry on the refrigerator

It's the first of the month

The last day for excuses

The first day of

A lot of stuff I just won't figure out

For a few weeks or maybe months to come



Nothing in this room belongs to me anymore

Except this machine where I type

But it's so out of place now

Much like I am



My possessions reside

At a new address

Almost an hour from here

And what doesn't rest there

Is thrown into my car

Much like I have been for the last two weeks



In the morning

I don't know where I am

The new house?

My parents'?

My roommate's apartment?

My generous friends' home?



The dirt in the new house

Didn't originate with me

It came from the bottoms of the shoes

Of some nice people I only met once

{And their very hairy dog}



I'm not sure what to do with myself

So far from my new abode

So disconnected from any of these

New responsibilities that have suddenly become mine

Afraid to leave this house again

For fear I will no longer have protection

{I know that's not true}



So

I sit in my parents' house

In this room that is no longer mine

Feeling oddly placed

Waiting to be permanently imprinted someplace

Just like poetry on the refrigerator





abigail m. aycardi (Two Rivers, WI, 1985)