If my backpack could talk, it might ask questions
about some of the items inside it.
Why do you always have three tubes of lip balm
when you’ve got only the one pair of lips?
Why do you carry a bird skull
around in a cardboard box?
If my backpack could talk, it might make observations
about what I like to eat.
Sour gummies are clearly your favorites,
especially the ones shaped like worms.
If my backpack could talk, it might complain that I leave
sweaty track clothes inside it for days.
Sometimes it’s not days. Sometimes it is weeks.
How can you not notice the odor?
If my backpack could talk, it might reminisce
about some of the places we’ve been.
I’ll never forget the science fair in Springfield,
how you pinned your blue ribbon on me.
And then there’s the summer we went to Cape Cod—
you dripped ice cream all over my straps.
In a more serious mood, my backpack might reflect
on our night in a cold waiting room.
I was so glad to absorb your tears of relief
when the doctor said Sam was all right.
If my backpack could talk, it might cheer me on,
let me know that with its help, I’ll be fine.
I’m here to carry whatever you need.
I’m here for whatever comes next.
