the mover
He could come without warning,
Swathed in blue, touching the rim of his cap
In greeting. You might be scrambling eggs
Or shaving your legs and he’d turn up –
Smiling, asking where this went.
You could be in the middle of something.
You may have no intention to move at all, but there it is.
He could come without introduction
But for a name randomly sewn on his shirt.
But he can wear any shirt; they could trade shirts.
When you call him Emmett
He could be laughing inside. Joe could be
Dick, Harry, Sean.
But he knows your name,
Knows where you live, has touched
All of your things,
Has pressed himself against your icebox
And slid it outside,
Has taken your lamps by their throats,
Your chairs by their wooden back,
Has wheeled your bed into the street.
Was he careful?
Was he quick?
Was he kind, as promised, or was he
Just perfunctory, visiting each of your rooms
In their appointed turn,
Carrying everything out very quietly:
Something that had to be done.
Something that after all, paid.
suzanne finnamore
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