Cargo

The closet door is standing wide.

I feel the draft that lives inside,

the scent of wool and cedar wood.

I’d move the coats now, if I could.

I grabbed the case, the hard-shell blue.

The handle snapped—it's old, it's through.

It left a powder on my skin.

I reached into the mesh within

and found a scrap of yellowed ink.

A taxi ride. It makes me think

of cities that I used to know.

I paid the fare and let him go.