It sits in the closet.
Sometimes I do too.

It has the mien and mood
of old tapestry from Syria,
smells of eucalyptus, the jasmine
of a Zacynthus sea,
orange, the almond blossoms
of a Guadalest evening,
salty, spicy, sweet
cinnamon and coriander
of a Fuerteventura market.
It has never been to any
of those places.
Neither have I.

Packed inside
is Cover Girl mascara,
the Stress Less formulation
of Aromafloria body lotion,
three changes of clothing,
and Fitzgerald’s nonpareil
novel, The Great Gatsby.

Tucked in the corner
of one of the pockets
is my sanity.

When I wrap myself
around that bag,
it vows to go nowhere
without me.