Suitcase

Suitcase

You see it in the O~fam shop window
You see its palchy red, its gilded locks
Gasping for losty lost keys.
You cannot hear its travellers tale,,
No Desdemona you to its Othello

Yet it has seen icebergs in the Antarctic
And felt the tropical sun burn through
Its tawdry fabric.
It's pitted from the rains that battered it
On oceans from Pacific to Atlantic

In many an airport it has been flung and tossed
Weighed down with bags and trunks
With prams nod skis.
Once left lonely on a Caribbean quay
Its owner unconcemed, unknowing it was lost.

In numerous hotel rooms it has resided
Pushed under dusty beds
Surplus, redundant
Till suddenly its value reinstated
It's packed again, a new journey started.

Now in a ~~indow, fledged round with refugees
From lofts and garages, unwanted books
Old pictures, glasses,
The case's travels Just ill history
The very thing for your trip to Southseal

Sylvia Goodman