Lament

by Ann Carlson

My attic is full. Closets overflow.
The basement is teeming with
skateboards and barbells,
forgotten letter jackets and
books, oh the volumes!
I set the world standard
for unredeemed books.
I could open a children's library.
Sagging shelves hold atlases,
bibles and enough
college texts
to warrant a land grant.
A steamer trunk full
of diving gear
and endlessly washed,
but still faintly fishy, slime-line attire.
(you never know)
Unknown boxes filled with friends' lives.
Temporary storage
for people whose faces I can't recall,
whose names are a struggle.
     Just til they get moved or divorced,
     or on their feet, or their acts together.
My tool bench breeds in the dark.
New hammers appear
after a carpenter leaves.
Canning jars multiply
in their spidery boxes.
I cannot escape
your disremembered lives,
but remain secure and immovable,
entrapped by
what you have forgotten.
Let go. I want my life back.