Suitcase

Everything—all of it—everything fits in here. In this one suitcase that's not even mine. Guy in the building said, "If you ever come back, I'll take it." This thing has been around. It's beat up, bruised by the blows of a hundred curbs. I packed it so full the clasps are straining. It's bulging like a belly after a last big meal. But this is it. I got no car. No tickets. No nothing. Just this one suitcase I'm banging down the street.

Couple shirts, another pair of pants, socks, drawers. My comb. Everything Manny gave me when he joined up—his books and that trophy. Believe it, I'm hauling trophies out of town, my arm yanking out of the socket. Got my work boots, too. They're no good for walking, and you know there's gonna be work. Sooner or later. Also the framed picture of Mama from that time at the beach. Look at her there, that smile shining like the sun. She didn't see this coming, the whole city on the road. Everyone's feeling the storm on their heels.

I could slide right in the back seat, wouldn’t take up but a little room. Stick the suitcase under my knees, fold myself on top, and we’re out of here. But no one stops. Just one suitcase and I look like a fugitive. A proper citizen has more to his name. Anyone with so little must want some of theirs.

I just want to get out, get gone, stay dry, be safe. This is no score. This is me—this is all of us—moving on. Am I coming back? To what, I’m wondering. A place that doesn’t exist anymore? Will the building still be there? And if it is, then what? Who’s living there, whole place soaked with stink, and maybe no roof to hold the sky off you? I’m not coming back. It’s just me, slugging myself down the street, someone else’s suitcase knocking my legs out from under me.