The airline lost my luggage.
“Last seen in a city beginning with M”—
That’s as specific as the agent could be.
Only one bag, a twenty-year-old brown vinyl one,
Long past its prime and not worth much anymore;
The contents nothing especially valuable;
It was crammed full of T-shirts and shorts and socks:
Things I’ll miss for the inconvenience of having to replace.
A city beginning with M—
Probably somewhere dull, cold, or deep in a red state: Montgomery,
Minneapolis, Monroe . . .
But maybe somewhere more exotic—
Munich, Montevideo, or Milano, perhaps;
I think my T-shirts could be happy there,
Wrapping themselves around some Italian boy,
Soaking up sun in Piazza Duomo,
Or a splash of red wine at a late-evening meal,
Or who knows what later on.
But I stray from my point:
A suitcase full of T-shirts, underwear, socks—mundane trappings of quotidian
life.
Why THAT piece of luggage,
containing nothing more troubling than a stubborn coffee stain
Or frayed collar or worn-out elastic?
Why couldn’t it have been my emotional baggage?
Why doesn’t IT ever get left behind in some city beginning with M?
The chaff of childhood,
Abominations of adolescence,
Embarrassing indiscretions of adulthood—
Inseparable and inseverable—
Never misloaded or mislabeled
Or accepted by strangers in airports . . .
THAT baggage always finds me,
though I’ve never filed a claim.
