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.

2 thoughts on “Baggage

  1. Memories and more, Nick. Although any poet worth his salt deserves to realize he has done work that is worth doing, and you are worth more than your salt. You just keep writing. What a wonderful writer you are too. I ordered you book from, but haven’t received it yet. Strange.

    • Wonderful, inspiring words, Tom – thank you. My book is now in its second or third reprint, I think; we have the pleasing problem that it keeps selling out, which could be why there’s been a holdup. I’ll enquire of the publishers and see what the current status is. N.

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