Packing

 

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The reason I hate travel is because I really lack
ability to organize my suitcase when I pack.
The shampoo always opens and nobody seems to know
why my socks are single -- where the other one could go.
My pants become so ruffled they would make a washboard grin;
my shirts have now got creases that run clear up to my chin.
I packed my comb and toothbrush, with a box of kleenex, too;
they manage to combine as if they bathed in Elmer's glue.
Those zippered little pouches that stick out so very bold
must be for ostentation -- there is nothing they can hold.
The handle comes unraveled and the locks refuse to budge,
and since I'm with some strangers I will only holler "Fudge!"
I always travel lightly but my suitcase weighs a ton;
travel may be broadening but it sure isn't fun.
Not when every time I pack I seem to half-destroy
most of my possessions as hydraulics I employ.
Next time I am tempted some exotic place to go,
I'll settle for an armchair and a book by Paul Theroux.

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