cleaning out

the hired men come
in a box truck. white
but beaten
and dirty.
they come to haul away
the things
that have gathered
in your basement
your garage,
up the fold out steps
to your attic.
the tread mill, a zebra rug
rolled and standing,
the old TV's now
useless and too large
for anywhere. snow tires.
golf clubs and skis,
fishing rods,
all things you've used
throughout
your life, collecting
dust, leaning against
the walls, encyclopedias
stacked and forgotten.
you want to say no,
leave this or that,
but resist, letting go.
that thing in life
that is so hard to do
with all things,
even you.