There were piles of unseen troubles
That opened this heart’s traveling bag
And the reasons had their reasons
Then new feelings set their flags
I’d never tell someone to do it
But I’d offer them an invite
Understand things can look quite simple
In the softened light of night
Giving off no clue and feeling like they should
But in the bright of morning
Things simple in that moonlight
Have a hard time conforming
To ideas of wrong or right
Still the world is shining
And filled with radiant light
Because those softened evenings
Gave this heart a brand new life
Miss First January canoed from the clouds
And anchored right beside Mr. Midnight
Red flower on the right, a book on the left
Traveling bag strapped on her back
Balancing a steaming pot on the head
A pen in front pocket of long white dress
With a rapture of piercing beckoning smile
She aired fleeting breath “this year, this year”
Could the fate of the year be in the book?
Could it be in the steaming pot on balance?
Is the fate with the red flower or the book?
No jubilation action can paste the answers
The fireworks, ululations, chip-chapping
The chickens’ tears and twisting of waists
Are nothing but prayers of hope of the blind
As the truth for the year may be in the bag
Pecking quick, a parting kiss
Pumping legs, a train to miss
Lovers waving, strangers pass
Tears and hugs a whistle blast
Scanning papers on news stands
Pats on backs while shaking hands
Averted eyes and hurried walk
Can’t stop, won’t wait, no time to talk
Pushchairs, wheelchairs, screaming kids
Cardboard coffee cups with lids
Departure times on TV screens
Red light, amber, go is green
Somewhere, nowhere, never speak
Laughing, crying, faces bleak
Turned up collars, downcast heads
Business suits and tardy threads
Briefcase, suitcase, traveling bag
Folded papers ,glossy Mags
Hustle, bustle, teeming by
Oblivious to earth and sky
Don’t stop don’t look and don’t ask why
Ticket punched and journey paid
Click the stopwatch
Now you’re dead
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