Each time I look down
that street it’s another U-Haul
truck that captures my eye
for minimal detail. Dead
of winter, dead center
of the block, this month—
someone gets up and moves
away. Or it’s someone else moving
in. The weave tightens
around messages that near
miss home.
A yellow cab double
parked, medium-sized U-Haul
behind it—I know
these getaways
too late, arrivals
too early. When moving in
becomes an art,
it’s time
to reconsider the vessel. Above
or below it, I just want
to crawl inside
the belly of someone’s home—yours?
Or, it could be mine.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 