stands on her seat to lift, one at a time, items rolled up tight
to pack into discreet pockets of her backpack.
Meticulous, slow, not a piece missed, a place for everything
and everything in its
Years ago, I might have ruminated on her youth and beauty,
her streamlined swimmer's musculature, how sinews covered
ribs, skin encased and hair over all
Today, the word "pack" drops into my conscious mind to caress
and to hold. I like it. I search "pack" through miles of gray
matter and find it satisfactory
Try to bounce, twist and confuse it, and it resists, keeping its
own stuffiness whether in a six-pack, an action (like packing a bag),
or a defensive move (such as packing a punch).
I sit here rubbing a bruised jaw, slap happy with this word I am
packing, while not packing a gun. Take that! Pack. Pack. Pack.
pac.pac.pac! Infinitely reloadable, the word lodges in the brain
Leader of the pack, guiding a pack mule into the Grand Canyon
to look for gold, then packing it out, maybe even moving on to
package it and
She is sitting now, her pack above her, only the top of her head
visible as the train leaves the station. Light brown hair.
I wonder about her eyes.