Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping <br />his hands above his head in victory; <br />the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away. <br /> <br />There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding. <br />A hexagonal seal announces the defunct <br />"U.S. Trunk Company." The frame is wood— <br /> <br />big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather, <br />its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes. <br />"It's beautiful. Much too expensive," she told Dad, <br /> <br />and kissed him. The lining is pink, quilted <br />acetate. Three sides have pouches with elastic tops— <br />stretched out now, like old underwear. <br /> <br />I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres <br />when I was so little she didn't blush. <br />The right front corner has been punctured and crushed. <br /> <br />(I could have choked the baggage handler.) <br />The handle—blue plastic doorknocker— <br />is fringed with wrinkled tags from United, Delta, <br /> <br />U.S. Air (which crunched the hole, flying <br />the suitcase back from Houston). I'd gone there <br />to see Mom in the "home," and save some boyhood <br /> <br />relics before my sister gave them to Good Will. <br />"Take mine," Mom said, hearing my suitcase was full. <br />"I won't need luggage, the next place I go."<br /><br />Charles Harper Webb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/suitcase/
