all of our possessions are full of heartache

all of our possessions are full of heartache.
the kitchen table and chairs we bought together
at the consignment store on south Lamar in the drizzling summer rain.
the bookshelf i recently found while on the job delivering groceries,
and that we had needed for some time;
our books having been strewn about scattered and dusty
upon the fake laminate wood floor.
the dresser drawers i painted sky blue
with the leftover paint from the bathroom,
which never really worked for the bathroom walls,
but somehow worked quite well for the dresser drawers.
the red velvet garage sale art
depicting an image of the Golden Gate Bridge
framed in dilapidated wood that we found while riding bikes
through the rolling southside neighborhoods.
the coffee table that Todd and Mel gave us
with its small center drawer where we used to keep the Mary Jane.
and the bed, that old saggy hand-me-down
that came with the apartment
which always left us spooned side by side in the middle by morning.
all of our possessions are full of heartache
as we load them into the bed of the big, red, borrowed pickup truck,
moving them all to Joe’s new apartment
sweating in the oppressive July heat
up and down the singing streets of Austin.
up and down the staircases of the ant farm apartment spaces
we trudge our belongings,
and they sit there quietly now amongst the white walls
and popcorn ceilings of Joe’s new apartment
feeling abandoned, alone and terrified of their uncertain future.
and we leave them there with Joe our good friend
whose new possessions are all full of heartache.