I.
There have been homes,
there will be homes,
but we called this Our Home.
Not even the most skilled surgeon,
the most gifted craftsman, nor talented artist
could fix that about us which was broken.
Now I scrub these walls with my tears
removing the stain of us like
prepping a corpse for a wake—
too soon strangers will trample
through our vacancy.

II.
Packing is the saddest of exercises—
the visible decomposing of our life together.  
What was our scent now reeks of formaldehyde;
these walls now house a funeral parlor,
cardboard boxes coffins to our past.
“Handle With Care” some are scrawled.
A fitting dirge.

III.
We are history
reduced to nothing
more than scattered
artifacts on Goodwill shelves.