Drifting with Hawks

The things that I know could fit in a minuscule box

Falling apart at the corners, splintered and rough.

I just have to hope that nobody changes the locks.

The words overhead while I played on the floor with blocks

The arguments: small, everlasting, gruff.

The things that I know could fit in a crumbling box.

The strange words they used at that school, with their beige and blue smocks

The things she was muttering last time she left in a huff . . .

I desperately hope that nobody changes the locks.

The view down the hill to the airport, drifting with hawks

The old soreness he nursed while strutting himself as hot stuff.

The things that I know could fit in a mildewing box.

Why we turned into a family that watches our clocks,

And how we decided that words were forever enough.

I cling to this hope that no one will change those locks.

The knowledge stalks me, taunting. It mocks

With its threat to take itself off in a puff.

Whatever I know can be crammed into one tiny box

So pray for me, please, that no one goes changing the locks.