Rupchev: Moving

It's a winter morning.  These people are moving house today,
the truck is waiting, its driver calmly frowning
and they load up their life, couch, and extending table;
the new place is on the other side of town.
They lived here sixteen years and four months,
with the walnut bedroom set, the children's cots;
they barely got the three-section wardrobe out,
hopefully the door at the new place will be taller.
They are quiet in the snow, the rope slips and twists,
then they load the desk, the refrigerator, the two buffets,
the lampshade, wall-hanging, pots with two dry ficuses -
and love, bound up tightly in blue bundles.
Finally and at last it's loaded -
two boxes with pictures and valued shells
and the twice-glued teapot from the wedding,
and the inherited rug eaten away by footsteps.
So the driver zips up his jacket,
and the kids wait on the corner with a radio
and the wife wrings her hands and sobs a bit,
and gets in up top with her husband, and they set off.