What I Need

I pack the backpack then empty it count again what I need, discard the unlikely, the unnecessary accessory. I pack the backpack shoulder it, adjust the straps remember to add a useful thing, unpack and repack, try to balance the weight, smooth the angular, tighten the loose. Once again add another small but just maybe item to the survival kit in the backpack which I have just repacked. I open the backpack unpack just enough to add to the survival kit. I forgot to pack rope, It’s a must have necessity. I pack the rope. This is a metaphor poem, possibly a cautionary tale, or an instruction manual. I remember just in time that I have left the instruction manuals for the battery operated can opener, the outdoor fire lighter, the camping stove, and a sharpening tool, they are all on a small folding chair. I gather the manuals up, pack them, try to pack the small folding chair, decide I will have to carry it separately. The backpack is back over my shoulder, above that a rolled up pup tent. The camping chair is in my left hand, in my right hand a sturdy hiking stick. Climbing boots and cleats affixed. I go to the door to leave. I can’t open the door too much gear to go through I may have to squeeze out sideways, But now I can’t turn the door handle or lock, too much in my hands. I will have to unpack. Metaphors are a heavy lift.