The Traveler

I live

In a tattered cloth bag.

I am picked up

And put down,

Placed in backseats

And bus storage compartments,

Carried from place to place

At the whim of the world.

Only sometimes

Do see the light of day

When the covering above me

Is opened.

But this happens only when

A hand reaches down

Desiring only to take.

Only sometimes

Do I stop for rest

But for the few hours

Between which midnight

Turns to dawn.

I long for sleep,

I long for home.

I press my fingers down

Into the bottom of the bag

Trying to tear my way out

Screaming for escape,

But it only results

In small, frayed holes.

I am trapped.

I am destined to roam,

belonging in no place particularly.

I am fated

To lie hear in the dark

Listening only to the rhythm

Of footsteps going ever onward.

I am a traveler

And nothing more.