I have this old, cardboard
Suitcase, black, rusty-claps shut,
More like a trunk really,
Hidden with years and curiosities.
This old, cardboard –
Suitcase, stuffed-full, packed –
Away, nearly-forgotten.
My trunk.
More like a suitcase, really,
That tramps would use –
Why didn’t I get rid of it?
Scuffed cardboard,
Scorched Black,
An open boxcar, really.
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