the satchel lays under the bed,
packed for size,
just the essentials that later define a life,
well, just a bag with some assorted goods.
Put me on a freight heading west and it suddenly,
like the click-clack of the tracks,
becomes everything we own in the world,
leaving the rest behind.
I think if I could live my life that way,
I might be less afraid of what I know today,
more intrigued by that which lies ahead,
the brush of a shoulder,
a stranger’s smile on a sunny morning,
whenever any thoughts before that smile,
became surrounded by worry,
concern, defeatist theory, the everyday
glass half-empty man.
I occasionally look at the bag underneath my bed,
and see it sort of smiling knowing I will never lead.