Baggage is a journey poem, thoughts on holding on and letting go and the ability to do so. And another thing. Not all baggage is bad.

Baggage – a Journey Poem

Her right leg is always playing catch-up with her left, on the rope
wound around it, a bunch of spoons, once-yellow rubber ducks, a 
handful of cells, and grandma's old bracelet is getting a scratching 
from the pebbles on the road. The rope's twines are cutting down to 
her ankle, sometimes she twists her foot to keep the fibres out of 
the cut.
 
She's known to bring traffic to a stand-still when ten minutes crawl 
during her crossing and you can measure city stress-levels in toots. 
Upgrading is always a problem, how do you bring all your friends 
across and do you sign up for a new identity and can you remember all 
your passwords, hers fell into her lamb stew. When she opened it, she 
found carrot shavings and burnt onion sitting on the battery. 
 
Last weekend, she went to a tie-cutting workshop to see about ditching 
some people. Not grandma, no, she's good even though the bracelet is 
now trailing too. That is the trouble with the power of now. When is 
now or where is it, someone tell me, please. Now, the rubber 
ducks that gifted her many squeals, are on the rope getting a 
thumping from the wooden spoon she loved licking salty 
 
dough off. Also in the relegation zone, silver spoons, the china turned 
to dust long ago. The road does that. Even when trying to toad-hop it 
from moss patch to leaf-pile like to one she's hiding in this instant 
looking for moths to nibble the knots down to nothing. Just 
visualise, Molly said, so now she's running through a meadow. 
The skies are blue.