Baggage
Heavy with joy and regret,
that invisible luggage weighs him down,
but still he carries it.
He recalls his mother, her purse,
how she fished out dimes, quarters,
her generous hand,
and his father's sample case
smelling of leather, cigarettes;
the greetings and good-byes; and school,
the way his satchel banged his knees
when he ran, that raw-hide pouch
holding worn aggies, cloudy marbles,
the memory of lightning-bug summers,
and the caterpillar webs that sagged from elms,
the torches his grandfather made
to burn them down;
and later, much later, Napalm,
the stench of flesh, the body counts.
Now in the shade of a concrete pillar
and tucked under the off-ramp,
he leans against his backpack,
untwists brown paper
from the neck of a bottle
and savors the first sweet swallow,
quenching, burning.
The wine winks in sunset's light
like fireflies on hazy lawns.
Slowly he unpacks the years
and thinks he hears his mother
calling him home.
Sue Scalf
http://members.aol.com/poetscalf
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