by Don Two
Alone on Earth, a backpack comes to life.
|There must have been a nuclear war which I alone|
survived; now I see a backpack against an oak
tree—is it real or is it imaginary? I will assume
it is for real and now growing arms and legs.
I will call it Wilson, perhaps Packy East.
There must be something wrong with
me because I welcome canvas
life, a strapping Velcro pocket
This is that odd scenario
underneath the mighty oak,
so you can appreciate all life has
not been nixed, but only sentient life.
Perhaps I should thank angels on high,
or maybe evanescent demons in the air.
This backpack’s folding in, yet I still hear
a voice! It is that forest sound, but
there is not one fallen tree.
Do you carry books and notebooks?
Do you carry pens? My ink had
dried out long ago, before the
sun had dimmed in infrared.
Yet abundant moonlight
shines, so we can
With alacrity I wear
you; I will savor your
closeness, the feel of
tight pack, and talk for
awhile, even a whisper
now and then when sleep
is imminent. These will be
idle hours; houses divided
in two cannot stand.
Still, I will continue
to unpack any