Baggage by Deborah Warren
Don’t tell me you expect to find a guy
who comes with just a daypack. That’s enough
to date on, maybe, but — to marry on?
You’re bothered by a little freight? But why?
Give me a man who’s travelling with stuff,
with serious luggage, not just carry-on —
whole skeletons in Samsonite; who brings
impedimenta — parents, kids, ex-wife,
outstanding loans. The stained and rumpled things
in steamer trunks and duffles are a life:
The more of it the better. Where you’ve been
and what you’ve brought along — if you’ve been far
and filled a lot of battered leather, then
don’t call it baggage. It’s just what you are.
This poem was selected by Jeff B. (Reader’s Services)