Packing for the Wrong Trip

The zipper caught on a loose wool thread

and stayed there, stubborn as a grudge.

I’m trying to pack for a funeral I dread,

but the heavy black fabric refuses to budge.

I dragged the bag out to the cracked sidewalk,

and the plastic wheels wobbled and shrieked.

It’s hard to have a serious, quiet talk

when your luggage is loud and the handle is weak.

It’s scuffed at the corners from years on a bus,

a repository for shirts that I haven't quite outgrown.

It carries the weight of the middle of us,

a box full of things that I’m forced to own.