Lost and Found - Thursday poem

Lost and found 

A mile from home, I find the plastic bag
torn off my mums by last night’s cold front wind.
It clings to chain link, one corner still knotted,
a deflated ghost. I pluck it off the fence,
thinking of lots of things I’ve lost forever.
What if they all came back this easily?
And I imagine a reverse tornado
Roaring overhead straight to my house
and dumping everything on me at once.
First all the pairs of shoes I’ve ever worn—
my green spike heels, red sneakers, Buster Browns,
pumps, flats, wedges, thongs, and sandals
all piled on the lawn next to the Christmas sweaters
and snowflake mittens. And all brand-new!
Over here’s my bike, a blow-up kiddie pool,
boxes of mystery novels, a bassinet,
my stolen jewelry box, and the blue bikini
I wore in Nice when I was twenty-two.
The tree branches are full of board games,
Monopoly and Clue and Chutes and Ladders.
My paint-by-numbers rests on the hard black sofa
where I sat drinking Gallo Rhinegarten
on Church Street, and here’s the fondue pot
that caught fire—everything’s mine again
and I dig through mounds and heaps and piles
of clothes I’d forgotten, suitcases, dolls,
waving at people who pass on the sidewalk
thinking this is the season’s biggest yard sale—
“No, this is all mine!”—rooting again,
amazed at the great hill of belongings, wondering
where I’ll put all this stuff now that it’s back.
But I’m busy swinging my old tennis racket,
Trying on mini-skirts, calling my dog—
Make that plural—for all three of them are here
though they really succeeded each other,
Casey and Casey II and Skipper,
dashing around in the spoils, barking happily.
Then I notice my father stumbling over
a load of toasters and coffee makers,
and stopping thoughtfully, just as he did in life,
to clean his glasses after he notices
the shiny ’72 Datsun on my roof;
so I step back to consider this big mess
that’s blocking the front door of my house,
realizing that I’ll never get back inside
where the present waits in quiet empty rooms
unless I abandon every single thing.

by Maura Stanton
From: Immortal Sofa, University of Illinois Press, 2008.

This makes me think of how much we fill up our lives with stuff...all kinds of clutter , and especially stuff from the past.