An Embarrassment of Boxes

I recently moved from California

to Oregon

and after several trips to the thrift shop

and three trips to the dump

I found myself with over 300 boxes
of stuff.

Not furniture, not clothing,

Just stuff.

An embarrassment of boxes.

I remember when my grandfather

moved after years in Hollywood,

acres of excess

stuffed into a clapboard garage

which had collapsed long ago

but was unaware,

as the broken appliances

and three-legged chairs

upheld the facade for years

after its demise.

After his passing the building groaned,
the roofline sagged
like an old swayback horse
under the weight of an unseen rider.

In truth,
the horse died long ago,
yet remained draped over its
skeleton of castoffs and keepsakes.

Of course, that has nothing to do
with the legions of boxes now residing
in my own clapboard garage,
waiting to be unpacked, sifted and sorted,
as I search for those treasures
which were once my grandfather's.