Baggage - Sara Sarna

She talks to herself,
I think.
There is no one I can see.
Above scruffy canvas shoes
toothpick legs extend
to shorts, then summer top
covered by unzipped hoodie.
Drenched in ninety degree sweat
I marvel at her disregard
for heat.
The handle of a rolling suitcase
fills one hand,
wheels objecting
to straight lines.
In her other hand
a tire.

She walks the middle of the road,
the one above the embankment
descending to the Pasadena Freeway,
chain link fence to hold it back
lest delusions of grandeur
coax it into interstate traffic.

I have questions.
Why the tire?
Why the suitcase?
Why the middle of the road?

With more strength
than size warrants
she flings the tire
over the fence.
I lose sight of it in the tangle
of growth on the hill.

On she walks,
like the tire never was,
like the middle of the road
is her beaten path,
like we all tow baggage.

Sara Sarna is an actor and poet in southeastern Wisconsin. Her work has appeared in print, online, and, perhaps most appropriately for her, on stage. She and her husband met working at the same theatre and somehow managed to raise a son with a passion for math and science. Go figure. To support her artistic habits, she has been a banker, a teacher, a Waldorf school enrollment director and a healthcare employee. Had she known a pandemic was coming, she might have thought twice about that last one before jumping in anyway. When she is not at work, at rehearsal, writing or hanging with her husband and the rescue dog that owns them both, she can be found on a trail in the woods talking to the trees.