I’ve been thinking,
And I think we should sell all our furniture.

You can finally
rid yourself
of that
prewar steamer trunk-
sell the contents
at a garage sale:
piles of Pokémon cards and prom tickets,
beach balls, cookie cutters,
and Schindler’s List on DVD.

We’ll invite people we barely know
To pick through our belongings
And take what’s
salvageable.

What’s salvageable, really?
Not Schindler.
It’s an important film, but
we’ve seen it before.

But back to the trunk:
You can auction it off
to the highest (or only) bidder-
some middle-aged antiques fanatic who won’t
mind the
cracks
and stains and
the musty smell of old books
yellowed for decades without a
single
page
turn.

Sell it to her
for a bargain.
Because we’ll take anything.

Meanwhile,
I’ll get rid of my bookcase,
Yes indeed,
drag the oak out the door,
leaving scratches
on the floor
that lead
out.
I’ll donate to the library-
The Asimov and the short story anthologies
and the self-help
workbooks,
everything I always
hated but pretend to only
despise.
(The least I could do)

Later,
I’ll help you carry that sinkhole
of a couch.
the one that always devoured our
jackets and cell phones
and intimacy
and hope and car
keys;
we’ll leave it on the curb
with a sign:
“Bedbugs-“
We won’t be half wrong.

The bed?
Maybe we should keep it.
Actually, no.
You haven’t slept in decades
and who really
sleeps at a sleepover?
Best to leave it on the curb
while we stay awake to
discuss marine life.
(Narwhals? Grouper fish?)

After a quick snack
[and a cup or three of coffee]
we’ll throw away
our desks
and cabinets
and nightstands.
The china hutch, too-

Let’s fix a spectacular
meal on your
best dinnerware,
lick our plates clean,
and smash
every dish for dessert.

Yum, deep-fried
emotional rebirth.

Reduced to shards/splinters,
the remnants of our perfectly hand-painted past
will be
hauled
away
in extra-strength garbage bags;
carried by people we don’t know,
as we stand in our
empty
apartment
and
laugh.