the early truck backing
up diagonally
to move
the neighbors out.
i peek out
the window
and see a stroller going into
the dark
mouth of the door,
raised from the ramp.
a bed,
a dresser,
boxes. the ordinary
things
we accumulate over time.
mops and brooms,
books, a television.
an orange sofa
that takes two to carry in.
the movers
say little,
while the man and his wife,
his two
kids stand
nearby, thinking deeply
about something.
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