issue 24 > light verse > warren
Baggageby 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.
‘Baggage’ was published in The Formalist and received the Howard Nemerov award.