Some are Even Stored in a Sealed up Barrel in a Garden Shed

The family albums brim with pictures held

In off-white stasis turning yellow, stained

With busy carelessness.  They have been quelled

By years of disregard.  The snaps, constrained

Inside the pages, huddled, jumbled, some

Completely loose, mean nothing now, except

Abandonment.  A blond man with his chum

Stands by a dark sedan, its meaning swept

Away completely in a land so blank

Of memory that it can’t be haunted, can’t

Muster even phantoms.  It’s like a prank.

Some long gone, distant cousin or an aunt

Arranged them all with care but left out dates

And names and details, closing all the gates.