STUFF

On a mission

She passes a foot from him

but doesn’t turn ‘round, smile or speak

empty large shopping bags clutched tightly under her arm

down the corridor between the

stuff

that at this point narrows so

that she must walk sideways

with her back to him

so that her matronly hips do not disturb

the teetering

tottering walls of

stuff

that rise almost to the ceiling

that threaten to collapse at any moment

that extend into

what was a dinning room

where the corridor between the

stuff

turns right into

what was a kitchen

all the while she’s careful to watch her footing

picking her way through the

stuff

that has fallen from

the cascading cliffs of

stuff

onto what was once a floor

because her children

who have long since fled the house

tired of being secondary to the

stuff

and have long since tired of telling her

that emergency crews can’t bring a stretcher into a house filled with

stuff

so she slowly continues her torturous journey to the back door

for her every Thursday two-for-one sale at the resale store

where the clerks wait for her

like hungry pushers

selling junk on a street corner

all the while she is driven by

the siren call

of the hunt for

stuff

and the blissful calm

only a shopping fix can bring

with the nagging knowledge

that the fix will fade even

before she gets home

when she will need yet more

stuff

to fill the void that the

stuff

never quite fills

but still she leaves

her husband

sitting majestically

on his Barcalounger throne

a sultan of

stuff

in what was once a living room

in what was once a house

but now is a

castle of consumption

with the moat

inside the walls