Moving

Disassembled, the moving boxes
gape, or bulge, in every room,
witnessing change. They remind me:
Tenant, I am yet trespasser.

Windows, like sunken eyes,
walls, like blank, hostile faces,
stare at me and implore:
Be gone, migrant-vagrant.

Doors open, to let me go.
On the stairs, dissolute
among boxes, I sit.
Moving unhinges me.