Unpacked

I stubbed my toe on the hard-shell case,

a black plastic box that has no place

in a room where I pay for the light.

It sits by the bed like a threat of flight.

I haven't opened it in sixteen weeks.

The wheels are gummed with street-side streaks.

It's a heavy square of 'not staying long'

that stayed until the feeling went wrong.

One zipper tooth is bent and broken,

a metal word that won't be spoken.

The side pocket gapes like a hungry mouth

waiting for me to head back south.