around, surveying things
one final time, making
sure that his memories
will all be found neatly
arranged by the new boy.
A model Corsair and a Zero
square-off on a doily
beneath a ceramic lamp
his mother painted. While,
overhead, an
his father’s handiwork,
slowly revolves in the dark
bedroom. Sightless eyes,
belonging to the stuffed
frogs he will leaving,
look up in silence at
the orbiting starship,
lost in whatever thoughts
their cotton brains contain,
unaware of what they are
to him: his family.
He taps his rocker and
it rocks, predictably,
keeping perfect time.
Part metronome, part throne,
it coordinates the headlights
careening along the wall
into his mirror. Those
lightning flashes at night
will not be missed. He’s glad
that dresser isn’t coming,
really. He has outgrown
the child inside. He flips
one of the handles up,
then flicks it down again,
to hear how it collides
against a plate of brass,
letting go of the past.
The noise it makes is nice.
So he lifts it up again,
so he can hear it crash
again, a kamikaze,
ending something grand.
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