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The suitcase by the side of the road
slowed me down, and the boot
midst rocks and weeds stopped me,
made me turn back
to look at the green plaid suitcase,
open and empty, as the poet would say,
"battered and alone"
Like the woman on Exhibition Road
against the wall, beneath
N A T I O N A L C
O N F E R E N C E
painted there.
Face turned from us,
missing plastic sandal no where
to be seen. Eyes
in the half-built apartments |
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gauged my presence
against the suitcase
I should have carried off
Then and there. Nailing
it to a wall
No! Throwing it into a
corner
(artist that I am)
with a cheap Mona Lisa
painted over & pasted inside
"What's the use!" you’d have me say
Or “Who cares?” That one
first spurned by lover, then by family,
and now by all who pass,
still has no home |
