By Celia Keegan
My fragile glasses can be wrapped with care
And gently packed in yesterday’s old news.
Burlap can cover table, desk, and chair
To save smooth surfaces from rough abuse.
My linens may be fragrant, boxed, and neat,
While crated books may cause strong men to grumble,
And the piano sheathed in a ragged sheet
Lest it be marred, should careless carriers stumble.
All these possessions can be moved away
To a street new-numbered and new named.
But something that I dearly loved must stay:
The living picture my bedroom window framed.
And for months, this vagrant thought will tease my mind:
“What was the thing those movers left behind?”