Electric Pig

We could never— how could we know?
At first it's as if we have all
the time and space in the world. 
That room with too-high ceilings, 
the old but beautiful claw-footed 
tub; windows without insulation,
radiators with globs of cream 
paint from the landlord's yearly 
re-do. Only in one apartment did we 
remember having a trash compactor 
in the kitchen sink. The novelty 
of grinding down little fish 
bones, leftover strings of bean 
with a finger-push of something 
that looks like a light switch. 
The sound of that maw churning 
things to pulp, like a pig in a pen 
underneath the floor. For the last 
dozen years, we've lived without 
such a convenience. There's a hand-
lettered sign next to the tap 
saying No garbage disposal. Do you 
remember the home repair contractor's 
face, almost accusatory? He said
There are rice grains near your sewer 
cleanout. Boxes of books weigh heavy 
as bricks. There are mugs from every
vacation, racks groaning with clothes.
I was surprised to hear the famous
tidying expert admit on radio it's OK 
to hang on to things still meaningful 
for you. Yes, this beautiful golden 
light trickles away so quickly. 
And yes, we too will go.