Luxury
In a resort hotel
luxury is measured by thread count,
goose down, concierge services
and a view that never ends.
Even as I enjoy
the crisply folded top sheet
and the liquid plasma screen
I am remembering the moment of this trip
that felt like truest luxury to me.
I sat on a plane – the luxury of flight! –
and watched through the doubled-paned window
the man charged with getting our bags on board
do a physical double-take as he grabbed
the handle of my electric blue duffle
with first one, and then two hands.
The ability to search the catalog of my hometown
library from the comfort of my upstairs library,
the time to wander through the stacks looking
for a bit of everything – non-fiction, essays,
fiction, poetry, humor, photos – and the chance
to bring it all with me to a place far from
the demands of work and home. The anticipation
of finding a few more sentences that feel as if
they might have been written especially for me.
I watched my book-heavy bag move up the rollers
and disappear into the belly of the plane,
feeling in that moment embarrassingly rich.
