going home
by Robert Keim

The books, from the shelves
Made of milk crates and scrap wood,
He packed with care
Into an old cardboard box
Kept together by generations of tape.
The few letters he saved -
The edges discolored,
Tucked into envelopes
With brightly colored postmarks
And air mail stickers -
He bound with recycled blue ribbon
And placed them
In the inside pocket of his coat;
A warm coat and loyal.
The worn out photos of his youth,
And those collected over time,
He cached under a hardback cover of Blake
Before sealing the box with borrowed tape.

He walked down the hall,
Each door he passed was shut
But he tipped his cap -
His mother had raised him right;
He stopped when he reached the street,
The way uncertain.
Where are you going, a neighbor asked,
Home, he answered, I'm going home.