it's not that this here suitcase
of pain
isn't real,

it's just that
me having it
isn't necessary.

flowing, as such things do,
from the sharp edged habits
of old old mind,

coming up
out of the depths
of childhood's end times,

where you learn but can't speak
of how the big people
weren't gods,
and the weight
of your history
bears down more and more
on stooped shoulders,

these neuroses
don't exactly
flee the coop
just because the door's open.

not with all them wolves
still lurking nearby.

not yet at least.

which explains
why the baggage
still comes with the grown man
I have become

it's a shield
against wolves
baying at the moon

and though I know they ain't real
I still hear them howl
and can't sleep sometimes
with my feet hanging off
the edges
of the bed.