Folding The Poems Into The Suitcase

first of all you'll wear the same thing every day;
poems come first. one raincoat; a snack.
fold the red leafed ones on the bottom.

in a separate compartment,
the ones of shaken snow.
apart in a little case

with a hand mirror,
the brokenhearted ones
with their single ray of light

and in a jeweled bag
those where the angels sighed
green sighs and in the pink patent pocketbook

you'll hold by your side
containing no map (and some coffee candies):
the ones in pieces

waiting to be
kaleidoscopic.

mary angela douglas 11 february 2016