In the Station
from On Nights Like This
What am I to do with this broken-
handled suitcase of love
but stagger around with it clutched
in my arms while friends say, 'When
are you taking that trip?' and strangers,
'Where are you from?'
I've crammed in everything I ever made.
It's yours;
just read the ticket on the side.
And should one day the jumbled contents spill
among the feet and tile-work and palms
what if you like some lesser saint
appear ascending on the moving stair
and offer (god forbid)
to haul my tangled misery to the curb?
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