The Writer's Book Bag

The Writer's Book Bag When I looked done, The bags were all around. Scattered on the floor, Obviously bought at a secondhand store. Writers came in and sat down, Claiming most of the bags that were around. Except for one. Leaning against the chair leg, Slumping with exhaustion. Faded from the wash, Ground stains on the bottom. Sweating metal flask, Hidden in the side. Leaving a moist imprint, That almost comes alive. Stuffed to the gills, Tiny wisps of paper sticking out. Torn slightly from being tossed about. Straps all askew. It has been everywhere, Continuously added to, Strata to be mined, When you have the time. Cupped softly, Hopes, Dreams, Fears, Treasures left of All that is left of you.