We see what we are when
we move what we have.
Pictures and knickknacks wrapped
and shifted to a spare room;
trophies, a paddle and stuffed
to the attic. Dressers we carry—
in an awkward
side sway—edging not to scrape
the doorjambs. A regretted stain, gashes
reappear as the rug gets rolled.
The sidelined mattress adjusts
hollows our idleness
from the innards of every worry
The oils of our habits
printed around the missing switch plates,
now ghosts exposed
of some earlier color or grace.