how many poems about packing,
the uncertainty about what to bring,
the weather, my mood, whether to be stylish,
who I might meet, what I will do, how much
is too much, how much too little,
what brand of toothpaste, do I have to go
through security, is the car full, will my husband
complain.
the answer to that is no.
Will I,
perhaps when he loads his greasy bike
next to my precious sheepskin for my
little bony hips befitting a little old woman,
that's what my daughter calls me as she
towers over me.
I don't let her forget where she
comes from.
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