Wishful

My closet is breathing.

The garments toss their hangers
and float shoeless
through the window to freedom.
They twist and wiggle with delight -
a multi-colored flock of billowing spirits
like a Macy’s Parade.
Shirts with no pants,
purses with no hand,
belts with no waistline.


My walls are quaking, uneasy,
remembering the abuse they’ve absorbed
and the floors felt. The furniture ricochets,
escaping damaged memories, and rush the stairs.
Gaily they bounce and boomerang
high as the roof of the empty church,
and hum like the blue green whirs
of wires poking into the bricks.

I call to them, “Come back,
please don't leave me stranded
in this empty place unable to break free.
See, I have luggage all ready to go,”
but they ignore my voice -
they’ve heard it all before.
I wave goodbye from the window,
glad they fly happy in the moment,
while I stand here unsure
of how my life can improve.

Maybe I can fly?