Flight

Like an archeologist with a spoon,
I'm cleaning out the back of my closets,
The forensic heavy work of moving dead bodies,
My mom's old books,
Her mom's older books,
An army of old shoes,
Is there a legal limit to how many wire hangers one can own?

My sacred record collection,
I'll never listen to,
Lenny Bruce, the Plasmatics,
Laurie Anderson, Shelly Berman,
Isaac Stern, Glen Miller,
Woody Allen, Circus Music.

Don't even ask about the electronics,
Boxes and bags of wires, cables, parts,
The nervous system of a clown,
Caught in a train wreck.

Now I'm stuffing the artificial xmas tree box,
Duct tapped together like Frankenstein,
Back in the back of the closet,
But sticking out like a broken bone,
And taking mom's bird watching notes,
Her bird-flight penmanship swooping across yellowed skies,
Fluttering down the trash chute,
Like a carrier pigieon.