Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                       Book Reviewers: Stop Unpacking!

You unpack the words, you unpack the lines
You unpack the themes, you unpack the scenes
You unpack the hints, you unpack the signs
You unpack the beats, you unpack the means

You unpack the forms, you unpack the rhymes
You unpack the plot, you unpack the verse
You unpack the memes, you unpack the times
You unpack everything and make it worse!

With some exasperation I ask of you -
Just what does all this unpacking DO?

It’s not about fitting it all into the car;
it’s about fitting the pieces together
against the agrestic trunk space.
It’s the way we hungrily wait
to spit up our influence It’s
the patient extraction of
a cat cornered conver
sation that is easier
to  shove  under
the innate rug
that is this
chaotic
l i f e

A screaming exclamation,
"This is who I am,"
I'm a protesting invasion,
proudly failing your ruthless exam.

Don't you wish I could shrink?
Don't you wish you could make me cry?
My hands stain the pages in ink
as I wish you'd say eternal goodbye.

I'll never be your ego's snack,
I'll paint a frown on your jaw
as I'll be dressed defiantly in black
from head to toe,
Mon cherie, don't unpack
unless in your grave below.

Check off
     all these belongings from a list
that I wrote in thick blue marker
on a cardboard strip I ripped
    
                    There's a book I lost at 26
                    with dog-eared pages fading gold
                    16 pens, 45 cents
                    a dented tin of birthday cards
                    unnumbered rolls of mints

Sit back
     on the carpet in the heat
take another sip and press on
to the bottom. To the green.

                    There's a look you had at 28
                    with bow shaped mouth and arching eyes
                    15 hours, many road trips
                    your crooked tooth would slant your grin
                    Never saw me fall right in.

                    And today I pace apartment floors
                    or sit amidst a box flap hall
                    halted breath, an iron hour
                    clad in sweat, still packed away
                    in taped up, cardboard yesterday

                    There's a photograph, from 2010
                    atop the slippers that you gave.
                    Raging smiles, orange lights at night.
                    The River Walk in wintertime.
                    And it's my favourite pic.

But the 21st was moving day
and all I've got are pickled dreams,
an empty house and waiting boxes,
"Tear my guts out," so they say.

                    No fight quite like a duct taped box.
                    No companion like your face.
                    No shrink quite like an empty bottle.
                    No wake-up call like moving day.