It is the last day
to feel this
particular wind
on my face,
to absorb these
particular sun rays.

The boxes are packed
uniformly matched
except for
the black markings
that indicate
which room
the things inside
came from.

I slide my hand
across the
kitchen counter top
and find no dust
or dirt to speak of.

The carpet
feels thick and stiff.
I rub my bare feet
across the floor
one more time.
Then slip
my shoes
back on again.

It’s time to move on,
you’d think
it would get easier
with this
roaming disposition
that holds me
in its grip.

I’ve moved so much
but I still miss,
all that history
I associate
with each old place
that I once lived in.

I pick up
the last box
as little ghosts
of memory
follow me
melancholily
out of the door.