Rob S. Friedman
January 2025
Sorting
Boxes filled with might need, with can’t trash, with once so important. They’ve traveled with me — home to home, job to job — haunting me like a cold nearly never gone.
Some are filled with painter’s tape, unused rollers, tools and screws with once-singular purpose. Others with pictures and relics of commitment and tenderness remembered and misremembered.
Now that there will be no more moves, save one, I’ll clean the tools and put the words nearer to the shredder and sigh when the power button glows.
Rob S. Friedman 