Scuffed Shell

Pulled it from the attic,

that hard-shell monstrosity,

covered in old airline stickers,

peeling at the edges like bad skin.

The handle, plastic, still sticky

from some forgotten spill,

wobbled slightly in my grip.

Scratches scored its surface,

a geography of forgotten airports,

quick cabs, and temporary rooms.

It still smells faintly

of stale hotel soap,

and that anxious pre-dawn hush

before a flight.

Just a shell now,

for sweaters and old blankets,

but it holds more than that.

It holds every time

I packed my hopes inside,

and hauled them somewhere else.