Improv' (1), Week 4

"Nonessential Equipment" by: Jehanne Dubrow

The dog and I are first among those things
that will not be deployed with him. Forget
civilian clothes as well. He shouldn't bring
too many photographs, which might get wet,
the faces blurred. He only needs a set
of uniforms. Even if his wedding ring
gives pause (what if it fell?--he'd be upset
to dent or scratch away the gold engraving).
The seabag must be light enough to sling
across his shoulder, weigh almost nothing,
each canvas pocket emptied of regret.
The trick is packing less. No wife, no pet,
no perfumed letters dabbed with I-love-yous,
or anything he can't afford to lose.

• Improv': Lightening the Load

This town and my life are among those few
items that are too big for packaging, too stiff
for folding neatly in his North Carolina sealed
cardboard. Neglect nothing that every day
living cannot do without. He should cram
in only a few frames, which might collect
dust or shatter hard from a fall off the top
shelf. He only needs a set of black ink
pens, a notepad, the Law. Even the
hand-carved oak, the inside smelling
of pine needles, and a dry musk of
December and every thing Will you
marry me, has too many points;
sharp. The game is removing. No
engagement band to worry with, no
life spent with simpletons, no wallet-
sized photos printed with smudged lip
stick, or anything he can easily find new.