----

          Say I’ve Gone Simple
                
This baggage is so cumbersome.  Odd,
I don’t remember packing lead.  Forget
passing inspection.  Pins and needles
in here.  Razor blades.  Blood
is not allowed, you know.  Sweat
and tears too volatile.  Yours dried
long ago, tell th--. . .Ow!  My arms are out
of their sockets.  Hard to breathe,
and my legs are jelly.   Don’t know how 
long I can carry all this.  Part of the problem.
is age.  When you are older than the wheel,
best to unpack and toss out the things
that do not fit.  Especially those that didn’t
fit to start.  Why does old stuff cling?  Bad
choices may as well be Velcro.  Like trying
to get cellophane to let go of a finger.
Shed those freakin' peanuts that spray
over hell-and-gone every time you open.
I hoard.  I confess.  Isn’t as if I don’t
take care of the things that are in my way.
(Always were?)   I mend and re-mend
ripped seams and holes.  So much beyond
repair.   Ought to know.  Isn’t about shirts,
isn’t about pants.  Socks, underwear, cheap-
ass laptop.  It is that each of these bags
has a secret compartment.  In it is crammed
everything from a hardened baby shoe
to funeral wear.   Shoes whose soles flapped
because a father reneged on alimony.  Blouse
all sparkly on the yoke that got stood up. 
Ghosts, goblins.  They whisper, they shout. 
Mistaaaaaakes.  Made too many mistaaaaakes. You
should be ashamed.  Do the world a favor
and bow out.   Well I am.   Are you satisfied?
Not all my bads, like for you to acknowledge. 
I was 12, I was 13, I was 19,  I hit 40.   Enough
me blaming me, so get out of my bag.  Go
weigh down some other poor sod.
God.  What will they do if they find
the false bottoms?  Can’t run in heels.
Can’t run from heels of the past.  Them
or me.   Know what? This carry-on’s enough.
Ma’m?  Sir?  Have a bag.  Really.  Empty,
may be worth auctioning.  Me?  I am off.
Anywhere loved ones can find.  (Just follow
the bouncing heart.)  Got me a toothbrush,
got me a book, got me a pack of spearmint. 
Enough cash to get by.  End up on the street,
won’t have to push a cart, will I.   Security
will be a breeze.    Almost fly myself.

 

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  November, 2006