There’s this certain bag
In the closet
That I found when I was cleaning my room.
I didn’t need it, to the attic it went.
Days passed, the bag was lost
From the mind’s loom.
Then one day, in the attic,
I found it dusty and tired,
Full of melancholy and gloom.
I used it again, thinking it would go
Back to its former glory.
Nothing could prepare me for its inevitable doom:
The straps broke,
The contents rushing, crashing, dashing out, out, gone.
Falling onto the floor with a clatter and a boom.

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  1. Now I feel like I should re-inspect all my bags to see if they’re still usable.

    I guess that’s why mom told me to use bags on a rotational basis. :))


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