A Poem For a Nameless Metaphor
He is lugging a heavy suitcase up a steep hill.
The suitcase is old, the kind that doesn't have wheels.
If he puts it down for a moment,
it slides downhill slipping on thin ice.
At the top of the hill is a town.
It is an old town, a town without wheels,
nothing rolls in and out of that town.
At last
the suitcase stays where it is dropped,
he watches the luggage as he slides backward.
He wonders if, downhill somewhere,
there’s a hotel?
The reception staff will be suspicious;
he has no luggage.
In a distant city
a frail old lady
purchases his suitcase from a thrift shop –
it is empty.
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