What do you mean, junk?

Hidden, perhaps,
in a small, brown paper bag,
half-heartedly sealed
with the crumpled expectation
that renewed interest
in its contents would emerge
at some unspecified time
and place in a future
that no one can guess
with any possibility of accuracy,
or even an approximation
that comes close
to being correct:
a memento of another
time and place, from a past
that none of us can re-create,
gnaws at the current contentment
of this ordinary life.

And when we move house again
the chances are that I will not know
the answer to the same old questions,
asked each time we pack our lives
inside some borrowed boxes: what is it
that you keep this old junk for? Does it
really have to come with us this time?
.