I have this old, cardboard

Suitcase, black, rusty-claps shut,

More like a trunk really,

Hidden with years and curiosities.

This old, cardboard –

Suitcase, stuffed-full, packed –

Away, nearly-forgotten.

My trunk.

More like a suitcase, really,

That tramps would use –

Why didn’t I get rid of it?

Scuffed cardboard,

Scorched Black,

An open boxcar, really.

****

Categories: Poetry, Selection: 2010 - 2015