Rucksack

The bag slung on my shoulders

Is endless, bottom out of sight like

A fantasy backpack

Or my mother's purse from decades ago

when she asked me to hand her a bottle of pills

And I nearly fell in.

Never to be found again.

When I set it down and take inventory

I notice the weight of each thing within,

And I sigh.

I wonder why I hold on to so much

Of my old pointless stuff

That's useless to me

Now.

Some things float there weightless

Like maintaining my love

And my patience

For you. It doesn't weigh on me

Like other things; it's second nature

And effortless.

Sometimes like helium it even relieves

Some of the stress from the rest of the junk

I hold on to.

Like the things at the bottom that I can't even see.

I feel their weight and I know that they're there

But when I look inside the bottom escapes me.

Occasionally I catch a glimpse,

And it's painful,

But the only way to relieve the weight is to plunge my hands in,

Take hold, and heave them to the surface.

But it's easier to leave them, their purpose

Long forgotten. Their aroma of perfume and cigars turned rotten.

I don't have the time or the energy,

The upfront mental cost of confronting them is much

Too great for me.

So I put the bag back on

And keep walking.