Baggage

These bags
I’ve packed
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.

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