Moving

It went well,

You didn't have to do it all by yourself.

Some friends came over and helped,

a hand truck, a friend with a van,

and you're moving out again.

Remembering when you first came,

it's crazy these streets look the same,

they looked different when they were strange.

And it's always weird to erase

every personal trace

from a place you called home for a while

and see all that you own in a pile.

A place that had become a friend,

to return it to how it had been,

to be friends with whomever moves in.

And you stick around

after all the boxes are down

the fridge is empty- just one ice tray,

and you swept and mopped more today

than the entire time that you stayed.

It's a shame you now have to leave,

the place is actually nice when it's clean.

It wasn't hard mopping the floor,

why didn't you ever do that before?

Now the van is down on the corner,

and you've done everything that you're gonna.

There's some pennies and dust on that shelf,

but the landlord can clean it herself,

and you're not sure, but you're going to claim

the blinds were busted like that when you came.

Man, so existential in that room,

so existential with that broom.

Cause the room looks the same

except there's no life left,

and you start thinking about death.

When you die, will it be the same?

No more thoughts decorating your brain?

An empty space for the world to reclaim?

You're on the verge of thinking something deep,

then you hear the van give the beep,

then you take one last look around to make sure,

then you take one last walk out the door,

and you'll never again see the angle

of the street you saw from that window.

You take the key out of your pocket,

you close the front door and you lock it,

drop the key back through the slot,

sure hope there's nothing you forgot.