Baggage and Life’s Intersections

The baggage

           began with months inside her belly 

                                   becoming a suitcase from the outside

                                                                          in her one hand.

I suspected, by then, on the other hand, raising a baby doesn't accept

                                         accidents and correction by re-setting, default,

                                                                                   as when on the inside. 

                                      She pulled my hinged arm. 

Becoming older, the load of baggage

           more than once, turns life 

                           inside out, in its wardrobe of places.

                                                          I stopped skipping

            between any verity and reason, over the rocks

            taking flight from any good sense of those colored pajamas days.

Age, itself, doubles in days, into months, then years; 

                       inside and out, 

                       aging upon her face forgets any reason,

             until one is the many, the many, one: 

                                               the load points that way.

                                                           We rested at the curb.

Her and I haven’t made it this far before:

            The collection of hopes includes gloves, heavy socks

                                                                     and birth by default,

                                                                                 unplanned but foretell. 

Again,  my fingers take hold of the baggage handle she once held                                                            

                                        as a child, walking onto the sidewalk, 

                                                                                  ignoring the traffic lights.