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| photograph by les roberts |
My life passes through my bag.
A past in scraps of places been,
receipts for prices paid.
A future in pictures and promises
torn from magazines,
folded and refolded into my dreams.
When I sit and let the world turn
I can feel the threads twisting,
braiding all that has been
with all that must yet be done,
and I know the trap is sprung.
My bag passes through my life.
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