An Ode To My Back-Pack

I don't remember where I got it,
but it's blue and black and quite expensive
every stitch well done,
and wherever I am
surrounded by friends or material possessions
if the wind feels off to me,
you'll find my key possessions
neatly packed

I use them
but I never pack drugs,
just money, cell-phone and IDs,
notebooks for drawing or writing
a change of clothes and Tenacity,
tear-gas if I have it
pens, sometimes juggling balls:
no heavy dogmas or identities,
a few ideals and pretensions in a hidden pocket

I feel best when the sun's shining and I'm out the door
(Bob Dylan or Donovan playing in my head)
even if it's only to the university for a day
or the coast for a week

Most places I go,
a few people I know know one of my selves:
there's usually a door to knock on
and a smiling face to greet,
old times, art and ideas plus
problems and opportunities to discuss

But my backpack is my best-friend