She skipped her fingers over Elements 
of Style and Medical Terminology
but pulled out Moby Dick and Love Medicine,
dropping them into the plastic laundry basket
on her last walk-through, deciding
what to take to the spare room
in her mother’s apartment in town
before he got home.
With the sound of a lone pickup
driving slowly, she swiveled her head 
toward the window with its view of the road 
and the fallow field beyond,
making sure the truck wasn’t red
with a dented bumper.
She slid open the junk drawer
leaving old bills and the spare key
but took her passport shoved way in the back
and her college ID from 1982.
She left the potato ricer and crock pot
but scooped up the corkscrew 
and slid her sharp Chicago chef’s knife
from the walnut block
after checking on the color of another truck 
whizzing down the road.
Outside she scurried with the half-filled
basket toward her 2006 minivan
with its slumped suspension,
eyeing the road and straining
to hear what might be the sound
of a distant engine
but then slowed her pace under the bare 
March branches of the lofty ash,
dragging her eyes to the hard earth
that in six weeks 
would yield bleeding hearts
and tiny blue forget-me-nots—
capturing perfectly the idea
of a cloudless summer sky.