Half-Open

This guest room, full of ghosts.

Dust motes in the light.

Another life, it mostly boasts

of something kept from sight.

Pulled that leather beast, a cough

of old air, floral rot,

the brass hardware, a little off,

a memory I'd forgot.

The buckles stiff, they strained and broke

when I finally forced it wide.

A sticker from some old joke,

or journey, now inside.

What holds it shut, this box of shame

or hopes, or just plain junk?

A faded label, a forgotten name.

A life, all shriveled, sunk.