my life is a tote bag, carefully packed up and ready to go, constructed
in sturdy canvas featuring an array of bright, optimistic, well-mannered
colors and trims. it gets the job done. it is open to suggestions. it is broad-minded.
i pick the portions of myself that i need each day and haul them off—
post office, town hall, recycling center—butcher, baker, candlestick maker—
i make tidy rounds wrapped, tied, boxed, bagged, zip-locked, compartmentalized
to last, sealed against fear and doubt, tupperwared and prepared for any contingency/
catastrophe/emergency in well-made natural fibers with contrast-color handles in
your choice of regular or long over-the-shoulder length, woven from premium short
staple American cotton, a variety that's inoffensive—sharper and cleaner and kinder—
more tolerant than others available on the market today or yesterday or the day
we fell into an inevitable impasse and you told me to stop analyzing—there's no fixing
this frayed existence. you announced that's it and retreated behind a stonework
facade of denial, an effigy of hands waving away truth, dissatisfaction inevitably
guaranteed. you who vanished through the door remained unavailable for comment,
never to be disassembled into any container bearing either the living or the dead.
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