How Little It Was

They gave me a box. The standard kind,

the ones they keep in a closet for this —

and I thought, fine, I don't mind,

it's not as though there's much to miss.

Six minutes to fill it. Maybe less.

The mug. The charger. The print I'd framed

and stopped seeing. The small mess

of loose change. The parking pass with my name

they'd need back. The front desk guy

was on the phone. The glass door

had that hairline crack — I'd watched it try

to spread for two years. Then: the floor

of the garage. The box in the seat beside me.

Light. The years in there,

and still room.

I drove home.