Dimensions

I feel sometimes I am a collection of memories only
these pilgrimages through sides; a hole in the cross-state
pickup's floor, pavement whispering underfoot in its
late winter cab. Cold cream for raw noses, dogs carried
across interstate highways, bags that cut into young palms
where the weight of probable frozen turkeys and canned goods
loomed heavy at your door; later, the garbage bags hastily packed
decide decade after decade in fits of I can't take this anymore.

I can show you; I have luggage now and only buy new cars,
completely safe, save for a scratch or two from nervous driving -
I avoid nicely outdoor events in December and take my own
groceries from car to home with folding carts from Amazon,
carried to my three cats. (Material wealth doesn't remove the fear,
though, of being alone; I still sleep with a pillow to each side to recreate
the feeling of being held but I'm scissors to a toddler's first haircut, the sound
of a thrumming beat through the floor, or the smell of summer soil after a good rain.)