|TFR Home Page||Contents||Prev. Page||Next Page||Comments|
By M.E. Hope
The bags were hard to leave at the station
like erasing the old address of a friend you
know you never will speak with again.
I sat them against a row of chairs near the restroom
it seemed the most common place an errant suitcase
might wait for its owner to return relieved and washed
ready for the next leg of the journey. My arms felt
burdened though, muscles retracting around the bone
a slow ache from the wrist up, until I raised my hands
to the rain and for the first time the palms sheltered me.
© Copyright 1997, 2018, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 11/06/2004