The baggage

began with months inside her belly

becoming a suitcase from the outside

in her one hand.

I suspected, by then, on the other hand, raising a baby doesn't accept

accidents and correction by re-setting, default,

as when on the inside.

She pulled my hinged arm.

Becoming older, the load of baggage

more than once, turns life

inside out, in its wardrobe of places.

I stopped skipping

between any verity and reason, over the rocks

taking flight from any good sense of those colored pajamas days.

Age, itself, doubles in days, into months, then years;

inside and out,

aging upon her face forgets any reason,

until one is the many, the many, one:

the load points that way.

We rested at the curb.

Her and I haven’t made it this far before:

The collection of hopes includes gloves, heavy socks

and birth by default,

unplanned but foretell.

Again, my fingers take hold of the baggage handle she once held

as a child, walking onto the sidewalk,

ignoring the traffic lights.