My basket holds items of escape
like lip balm and books.
I like rifling through the pens,
cords, and hair ties remembering
my mother’s junk drawer and all its magic.
Every time you’d open that drawer,
it was like a different tableau:
green stamps, scissors, scotch tape, pens,
hairbrush, matches, pennies, notepads,
sandwich bag ties, tea bags, rubber bands,
recipes, and postcards all vying for place
in the chaos of the drawer.
I have that basket by my chair that seems
to fill my need to contain a little chaos.
But I also have a work bag that I overstuff
in case of, I don’t know, the apocalypse.
I carry it most days, like a hobo.
At any moment, I can come up with
band aids, lip balm, paper, pen, granola,
mints, antacids, headache medicine, tea,
hair ties, lotion, chargers, paper clips,
tissues, lint remover, nail clippers, masks.
I am sort of known as everyone’s mom,
always prepared. Except I’m rarely ready
for anything. But I like the planning.
The packing. Sorting chaos.
I can barely contain myself.