It’s a suitcase in the corner
with a breaking zipper;
an antique carpetbag you’ll
leave behind in a train station
when you spot the Big Idea, misty
in the morning, nipping at your nose.
It was free, you’ll remember,
forgetting what was inside
before the train reaches London,
but after you miss the feeling
of a worn-out handle in your palm.

By Heidi Turner