My One Thing
If there was a fire
and I had to leave now,
I could probably take one book with me,
but I would grow to hate it
knowing other favorites were left behind
abandoned to the flames
that licked up memories and notations
their pages faithfully held for me.
I could probably take one picture,
but would my hesitation
of whether to take one
from before or from after
cost me both of them,
forcing me to leave with nothing?
I could probably take the cookies I splurged on,
but they would be eaten
and leave me just as empty
as the space where my home had been.
Practicality screams that
my one thing should be
the hidden nest egg I’ve been adding to for years,
the folder of important papers I’ll need to start over,
the laptop I didn’t want to buy to replace my old one.
What does it say about me
that I don’t have a one thing to take?
Am I a minimalist
or merely a wraith?
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