Choices
At the moment I have to hoist
my suitcase up from the platform onto the train,
or as I trudge through endless airport corridors,
I evaluate my days:
What am I carrying to my death?
Who will dispose of what I leave behind?
Does anyone want my junk?
Six shirts—why not three,
three slacks—why not two,
jacket—recall last fall’s freeze,
books, books, books—
only for security:
what I know
will have to do.
9 thoughts on "Choices"
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Without mentioning weight, this poem elegantly sorts through to lightness.
After reading this I’m inspired to cull some my accumulations — my junk. It’s a very true poem.
Greg, I sat with my father as he went through old photos before downsizing to assisted living. He told me stories if there were any and then threw the photos away. No one would have any connection to the pictures when he was gone (he’d be 99 today!) I hope I’m as brave, because I tend to be a packrat . . .
Nancy, you are lucky to have had the opportunity. I did a bit of that with my dad, but could have done more. Your dad was wise!
Shew that end is powerful: “what I know/will have to do.”
I agree with Shaun on your ending! And you make me feel guilty about the things I won’t let go (material and otherwise!) Thank you for such a thought-provoking poem.
I think of this often. Your line, “What am I carrying to my death?” beautifully, concisely sums up this materialistic-ness of our world.
I was so engaged in this poem.
love:
What am I carrying to my death?
and
what I know
will have to do.
I like the heaviness at the beginning shifting at the question and let go of the weight of belongings.
Ah, the weight of the middle stanza.