I Travel Light, She Says... Poem by Michael Joseph Ferguson

she lives in a magazine, full time

just adjacent to the impulse buys at the front counter


she watches the vagueries and well-defined lines of human life pass before her eyes

safely tucked behind bent metal wire


beyond a name - just a smile - making the most of her two dimensions.


a baby's wandering oceanic eyes -

then a careful old woman

visibly loosening her grip,

nestling a bit closer up against the Great mystery


water drips from somewhere in the storeroom - but you can only hear that at night when everyone's gone home.


a neon light buzzes blue - remembering when its molecules were a cicada or antelope fur - or the creaking bark of a blue spruce, making room for the thin lines of water determined to work their way back up into the heavens

clouds are born

and the asphalt becomes wet - emitting a curious odor.


She greets the morning crew

as the slight morning breeze filters through the automatic doors


and points her in a slightly new direction

this time facing the chewing gum display


'I travel light' she says...