E7/10 Vasant Vihar (Poem)

Brown cardboard boxes cover the walls. 
A thin film of dust conceals
the bare, marble floor 
and a thin ray of light 
shines through the heavy drapes, 
illuminating the floating dust particles.

A child stands in the corner, 
twiddling her thumbs, 
moisture pooling in the corner of her eyes,
as they dart around, 
reading the labels 
scribbled on the boxes in 
big, 
black, 
bold 
letters. 

Toys.                               Lamps.                                                  Guest room desk.
Clothes.                                  Master Bedroom dresser.                                    FRAGILE.
       Books.                                                                      MOVE WITH CAUTION.

“It’s time to go, sweetheart.” 

The voice is cautious,
as if stepping over sharp shards. 
It’s gentle, 
kind. 
The child doesn’t like it one bit. 

“Honey, we have to leave.” 

She whimpers a little, 
balling her hands into fists 
and rubbing the tears out of her eyes. 

“Coming mum.”