I Am Luggage III

I am Luggage,
packed to near bursting
with neat, folded metaphors,
tight, rolled similes,
enough accessories for simple adornment
but not to plump the goose.
A side pocket is stuffed with bottles and tins
to hold emotions,
adult proof locks to prevent envy,
love,
angst,
honesty poisoning.
Another for shoes -
open-toed sandals for narrow roads,
scuffed boots,
dress cordovans in case we get lucky.
Down their toes,
extra socks
and thermal underwear
share space with beachwear and sensible hats.

I am packed to the brim,
unable to hold another hair shirt,
suit standing stiff before the bar
beach umbrellas from last night's mocktails.
No room for journals, pens, ink,
reference books,
beach reads,
studied guides,
obscure Byzantium tomes
(a common book of prayer tucked
between out of fashion gerunds
and wrinkled modifiers
just in case there is a need for prayer).
Rhyme and meter
left in the back of the hall closet,
not given even momentary consideration.

I am a carry-all,
but there is too much to carry,
and we have not even
begun
to fold and pack you.



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