Nowhere Else to Put It

It filled for years
now
there is nowhere else to put it.
Accumulated,
full of nothing:
heavy, burdensome,
nothing has got to go
somewhere

Ron, is gone
my middle namesake,
Dad thought he'd told me
a month ago
and now I know
just how full my father is -
I can hear it in his voice.
the stacks of
unseen boxes
crates
and bushels-
bushels back
in the day, dry wood, strong

banded and bowed
rusty, ringed handles
bent from age and
from fingers same

How full is he and
how full are you of
all of this
that I am so full of.
I'd give it away-
if I could
Because there's nowhere else to put it.

I can hear it in my voice.