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Packing for impossible, by Britta Benson

I’ll be off to Germany in a week’s time. I won’t need much, still, I tried to get things sorted today, it being a Saturday. I had nothing else on. I tend to travel light. When I looked at my pile of stuff, I realized that I will take less on this trip than on some of my normal daily outings through life. This is where the poem started.

Packing for impossible

Toothbrush.
Underpants.
One couldn’t possibly face
the unexpected 
without the bare minimum
of necessities.

Tissues.
Throat sweeties.
That miniature sewing kit
from the guesthouse in Portrush?
Too much!

Travel light.

Something to write on and with,
to remember the scene of my crimes.
Leave a hint of what happened
to whom it may concern.

A suitcase?
A backpack?
A tote?
Or just a few bits and bobs
in the worn out pockets of my coat?

I carry far too much
to pretend I’m just passing.
You don’t ask.
Still, I say
I don’t intend to stay.

Packing for the impossible.

Do I really believe 
life will be any easier
if I’m armed 
with a travel size tube 
of minty fresh?
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