Thursday, 31 October 2013

Baggage Claim

that battered suitcase
doesn't look like a lot
but maybe it’s got magic
a few sticks, some pot
that ordinary duffle bag
could tell you stories
like you wouldn't believe
of a dirty weekend getaway
where time went by, swiftly, tenderly, fervidly
maybe you'd prefer the matched set in crocodile skin
that speaks of expensive spas, sex, salvation and sin
and there’s the old steel trunk
rustic in its appeal
that tells me a village girl
has made a green card deal
i bet in the box
packed to breaking point
are ready mixes and powders galore
to curb the worst of homesicknesses
when your heart’s hurting for more
there’s that cheap grey vanity case
unobtrusive , the way she wears her face
she doesn't call attention to her age
and the brushes hold back their stories
there’s the guitar and all its glories
and a little child’s bubblegum pink bag
and a suitcase with an officious sounding name tag
and there’s me.
that black bag
filled to the hilt with books
and memories of you.
that’s all i could fit in, in the end.