by Grant McLaughlin

 I still remember the day 
 I got the email I wasn’t going home after spring break.
 My home wasn’t my parents house and all my stuff 
 wasn’t in boxes or packed into anything.
 I was 556 miles from the family I hand picked 
 from classes and parties, I got too drunk to stand at.
 I still had leftovers in the fridge and dishes in the sink,
 my ex-girlfriends Clothes in my bedroom because we didn’t for one    second believe they were going to kick us off campus.
 Not over a virus that no one fully understood yet,
 it was the beginning of a deathlike silence 
 that would take my apartment like it had taken New York.
 My parents didn’t believe me until I showed them the email.
 An hour to pack up everything I owned in my Northgate Apartment 
 and get out before anyone knew I ever lived there.
 An hour to throw my shit into boxes and trash bags 
 and high tale it back to Dallas before COVID-19 caught up to me.
 I didn’t even say goodbye to anyone, 
 I couldn’t do that,
 It felt like I was abandoning them. 

Published by Grant McLaughlin

Poet and Journalist. email me at grantmac1231999@outlook.com

One thought on “Eviction

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