Travel decals cover the suitcase like barnacles on the hull of a trireme. A frayed rope is cinched around its leather chest. Odysseus heaves the suitcase onto the sag next to his. Where’s the remote? Under the cushion. He cracks a beer, then another. Did you think I didn’t want to see the world? Jeopardy is a window over the wing, full of mountainous clouds. That I was afraid of what I’d find? A pile of crushed cans rises on the TV tray. That I—  The suitcase mumbles something. Odysseus turns up the volume. The suitcase begins shouting about turbulence, shear, updrafts, downdrafts, mid-air lightning strikes, blue departure screens, ceaselessly scrolling, and above all, why one must always select the Exit row… Casablanca. Why did you go? Slurring, Why did you come back? Ah, he’s weeping like a child. Penelope covers him with a rug. The suitcase starts to snore.

Bill Rector has published a full-length poetry collection and four chapbooks, one of them in White Knuckle Press.

Photo by Serge Le Strat

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