Dear Mother In Law,
Look with gentleness
Upon the oddly assorted
Your son’s wife adorns herself with this
She knows she has no excuse –
Two adults in a Fiat, how hard can it be??
But, dear MIL, she has that recurrent malady, that
Browns, Blacks, Russets,
Downs or Fleeces,
Sleeves or no?
Boots or clogs? Or heels or flops? Or one of each?
And so she hops.
The gray paisley scarf with
Silver threads, which
Does not match with anything?
Triumphantly in the suitcase!
The mustard one that adds real autumn soupçon?
Forgotten as a yahoo password.
Belts, earrings, running shoes,
Like place cards for the Thanksgiving table,
Newspaper article about the kids,
Oddities all and faithfully packed
Ducks in a row.
But a melange, a jester’s patchwork
Of basic clothing. Astonishing. Weepable.
Dessert, devotional, face soap,
Wrinkled shirts as useful as doilies,
Carted to and fro, merely freight and weight.
All the ‘ers’: charger, razor, tweezer;
Layers for unlayering after too many hours sitting
Stuffy by the fire,
Or relayering for a hike up Lookout.
T’s to Parkas, she’ll season it all wrong.
You are right. She could have packed it all
By now. But it is easier,
And quilt-covered pleasant,
And gratifyingly indulgent, to
Wallow in the overwhelm, to
Despise the very concept of the overnight, to
Once again retreat with Eudora and say,
“Away, cruel world!”
No one bother me, I’m busy
Deliciously hating packing.