17 March, STuffed car

Off again into the morning on a dusting
of snow from yesterday.  Spring doesn’t
come without making a fuss.  It’s St Paddy’s
Day, parade-less and green-less. Walking
homeward on Charles Street, I spot a 60-ish
man in a silver compact car turning to park
in the lot of the old brick gun factory building
converted into apartment units.  I don’t know
the driver, but I recognize him – well, not him
so much as his car; it’s stuffed with bulging green
garbage bags, papers, wrappers and God knows
what else. I’ve known a few hoarders like him.
Looks like the driver-side compartment was
scooped out with an ice cream scoop, leaving just
enough space for him, perfectly molded to his
portly body.  As I look back over my shoulder at
his car, now parked, I wonder what it would be like
in the driver’s seat (safety issues aside).  Does he
feel like the incubating chick embryo in its shell
surrounded by warmth and comfort, balking at
pecking his way out?  Or does he see himself as
an encased caterpillar in a chrysalis cocoon whose
arms, legs and torso are pressed into bushels of
gathered wool and mounds of miscellanea at his back –
waiting for the nod from God to break away from
trappings and everyday wrappings, to be cut from
the mile-long dragging tail that brought him to a halt? 
Or, as he lifts weightless from earthly things, flying
far aloft with heady freedom, does he ask for just one
thing left behind, or wait, maybe only two, please.