After Four Years

I’m picking hearts off the wall

pink ones and yellow ones
made of construction paper
symmetrical and scattered

and with them go my postcards -
Spain, France, and England -

my portraits in red ink
(in constant self-revision)

and love poems and bumper stickers which say concisely
precisely what I believe.

I’m picking stars off the wall
each one filled in sharpie ink
with words of the greats

and then I take down letters
and cards, decorated so artfully
by people who were even there
through the tearful nights
they never saw.

I’m putting all of this in a narrow box
that fits every shape, size, and color

and I’m leaving it open

because I know nothing will fall out.

I’m sitting on this sheetless bed
and staring at walls I forgot were white.