99poems/walkhome

I am always
walking things
home.
The camera
back to its bag,
the bills
to my desk,
my glasses
case to my purse.
I escort the
rubber bands
to their dish,
the tea bag wrappers
to the recycling.
Hand in hand
the newspaper
cellophane comes
to the bag
where it waits
until its trip
back to the store.
I walk his shirt
to the closet,
my shoes
as well.
The things to be
mailed trotted
off in one
direction,
those to be filed
in another.
I see things
back to their
notebooks, by
category.
To my clothes rod
by color.
I return my
bedroom water
glass to the
kitchen,
the ones in
the living room
tag along.
Sometimes I find myself
out walking,
singing out loud,
“I walk alone.”
What was I
thinking?

5/27/99