My knapsack

my knapsack believe me: when that stranger confessed that his prime virtue was to carry everything he loved with him, on his back, unto himself, i agreed. he meant the physical— drawings, newspaper clippings, lost art he was determined not to forget— but i envisioned the actual, palpable heaviness of experiences the sort of times that make the blood burst from your veins i imagined a theoretical knapsack of my own, the tired knees, the strained back of love, bearing everything others have been unsure of what to do with.