the Peddler

it’s his pack that holds
my attention
the dowels and springs
the hidden hinges
nothing there stands out

all is infolded unsprung potential
surfaces and plates and pockets
the shoulder straps
made by a woman
a mother sister or lover long ago

it matters not
only that they were made with care
leather padded with cloth
just long enough to hold
pack to back

sweated sun stained
worn like skin like memories
hoisting up, on the shoulders
eased off, one strap first
twisting and bending towards
the grass for a moment to rest

the peddler sets down
and sits on his packrest
and recalls the strapmaker

no i don’t care for his goods
but for his pack
and where it’s been
and how it’s carried…