It’s been three days since the dirt went in

It’s been three days since the dirt went in.

The bag sits by the radiator,

hissing a little as the pipes knock.

I reached for the zipper, needing a shirt,

and the metal tab snapped like a dry twig.

Now it’s locked, the teeth jammed tight

in a grin that won't open or shut.

I pulled at the fabric until the seam gave,

a sudden, jagged mouth appearing in the side.

The smell of mothballs and stale church air

blooms into the room, heavy and old.

Everything inside is still folded,

waiting for a trip that’s already over.