I originally wrote this for one of my grad poetry classes, almost exactly three years ago. How time flies – regardless of what you’re doing. 


I’m a displaced person for the second time in five months. And not just from one house, but two. My own trail of tears as I carried boxes from his place. His place – never really ours. He will miss my hugs, he says. Wants to still be friends. Sure – perfectly natural. We decided to avoid the eventual mess of marriage by being buddies. Totally normal. But maybe this is what I get for thinking that one life was greener and fairer than the other. The whole” 80/20 Rule” – although I still can’t decide if I left the 80 for the 20 or vice versa. Or maybe there never was an 80.

“The Displaced Person.”

I remember the story from class, but I doubt Flannery had break-ups in mind when she wrote it. Although there was a kind of break-up that happened. Mostly it was just sadness and death in the end. I didn’t die, and I’m barely sad now. I just want a place to put my books and then not move them again for a while. And I want my movies back.

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