Out of the bag

Wandering the streets of the shire,

Slinking slightly through lamp light

My worldly possessions, my personal effects

Sitting on my shoulders – a familiar weight.

My home, my work, my pastimes

Rest in a ragged rucksack week upon week.

Familiar footfalls whispering

Through these familiar streets.

I return to the house and open my bag -

But I keep myself tucked inside.

Through institutions and pandemics,

Through shire to shire,

Through rooms and ruminations,

A rucksack has had my side.

The clothes off my back are in the bag.

The sweat from my brow is in the bag.

My secrets, safety, and security

Are all tucked away in my bag.

Never touching the ground.

Never making a sound.

At long last I have found a place to unpack.

I have found people who can share the load.

Unfolding myself from the teeth of zips,

No longer stuffing myself down in the cold.

Wandering the halls of a home,

Passing familiar faces and possessions,

My personal effects – my home -

Is finally out of the bag.