We Help Each Other Move

A new poem

We help each other move.
We show up and schlep,
unearth and unmake
and uncover and wrap,
we sweep and fold
and lovingly arrange
so that Tara gets tucked in
between oversized hoodies
while Shiva commands
that which is not yet
ready to leave.

We help each other move,
up and down the narrow staircase,
collecting loose change
from under the sagging bed,
opting to abandon the tired desk chair
with a winter promise as summer wanes.

We help each other move,
huffing and heaving
and hauling from here to there,
our lives creating tiny cross-stitches
seen from space and overseen
by celestial beings and watchful landlords
who remind us where to place
the stinky trash.

We help each other move,
with long-anticipated dates
on the calendar and last-minute calls
when we finally realize
this isn't something we can do alone.
We wind our way into the hilltowns
or endure city traffic,
someone grabs a pizza
and someone catches his breath
in the worn armchair,
someone is just starting out,
her sunny space an eager canvas,
while another is tired already
of so many rooms and boxes
in his backseat.

We help each other move,
recycling piling up by the curb,
Life magazines from the years
of our births, journals
from the day we struck out
for the first time alone
and found gold at a coffee shop
planting the seeds of our future
by mixing metaphors
and dreaming,
or simply putting one heavy foot
in front of the other,
all the while poems trailing us
like a circle of starry birds
who know our every move.

We help each other move,
from womb to cradle
to the great expanse
of a life, until one day,
there is nothing left
to pack, no bags, no books,
no carefully laid plans,
no forwarding address.
Only, if we're lucky,
presence,
and knowing
we did some good
while we were here.

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