Beneath my eyes
Are just my carry-on;
My real freight
Is checked and stowed:
The baggage that I do not need
But cannot seem to live without;
A steamer-trunk of wasted years
A rain-stained tote of lost ideas
A locked briefcase of secret schemes
A Samsonite of fragile dreams.
It’s unimportant where I go
How frequently or far I fly,
How carelessly I label them
Or hope they tumble from the sky:
Each day I’m at the carousel
To find that every single piece
Has made it with me, safe and well.
A reclaim that brings no release.