Universe filled with space,
but not here.
Just one more book.
Space for my cup
but still, my room runneth over.
Another winters day
Buried again under a mantle of white
Shovel no good in all this paper.
When you get to heaven
You will be reunited,
But not with things.
A bare countertop
Dishes in the cupboard
When will it happen?
Friends come over.
There is room to sit.
This brings me such joy
Such a delight this old cup
If I could find it.
Grade five when I was alive
Killing me softly now
Purge then organize
One two three four five… seven
But not everything
All poems by David E Fraser
A shopping holiday
You will need to decide which
On one, or from one.
A two car garage
But no room for this one car
Three car just as full.
If asked she’d bemoan
her paperwork, undone
piled high, on her dining table
where we ate holiday meals as kids.
charities soliciting support,
she sent them all money, eventually
not knowing what to do
with a life-time supply of address labels,
greeting cards for every occasion.
I sorted her papers, sent payments,
unsubscribing, organizing wrapping paper.
And felt guilt expressed by my mother,
send them something, she droned,
especially the foot and mouth artists.
Opening my desk drawer, I too
am overwhelmed by address labels
seasonal and every day.
I shut my drawer
carry guilt between my shoulder blades
for my many blessings.
When I’d cleared paper away
from her dining table, excited, she
declared, I have a place to eat now!
But not to bake! Because her oven overflowed with
pressed and folded brown paper bags,
plastic bags and containers
washed and sorted. I sighed,
collecting, hiding and then recycling them
before she detected.
I still find myself unable
to throw away anything I might
reuse, recycle, or restore. My husband
laughs, looks at my desk and speaks
“you have a lot of ‘paperwork.”
– This poem is posted with permission from the author