I have a lot of it, more than I thought I did, and in the past couple years
I spent time going through Stuff I owned that I stored in my pale red barn, out back
Where the horse stall fell and chickens claimed as their roost a year or so back
Stuff, like Aunt Mary’s old plates and my mom’s wedding dishes and a plethora of purses
Because that’s one thing I like (purses) but it doesn’t matter, does it, all this stuff, because
It just clogs up my mind and my heart and my arteries and the blood that carries oxygen slows
And I can’t breathe and I’m wondering why did I get all this stuff? It hurts
It suffocates
And I look at the Eiffel Tower, because I bought it when we were there, in France, years ago
But now all it brings me is grief so…
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