I look at all the fucking pointless clutter
amassed upon my ever limping journey
towards that cold-dark-buried-wooden box,
and, on a whim, decide to give my books
away, now, each one, to my sons; a tiny
foretaste of what’s to come. Blank walls look better
than overcrowded shelves. I stare at nothing,
and feel a freedom from the slavery
of ownership. I listen to my breathing,
the only thing that’s here apart from me.
Is this, I think, what life is all about:
acquire, use, discard, gather dust, clear out?