Steamer Trunk

It sits dark and ragged
behind piles of dusty books,
mothballed clothes,
forgotten toys

approach it slowly
crack it open like a clam
muscles remembering
the years-old routine
of sliding the key into place,
twisting the handle,
shifting weight to
place the hands just-so
along the heavy sides
that separate
with a grudging squeak
and rumble of casters.

let dust and smells spill out
like memory
from a time-capsule

inspect the wardrobe first,
each bright and ragged
mud still speckles
the blue pants
near the cuff.
the red striped shirt
still missing
one large button

then sort through each
undisturbed drawer
touch each once-ordinary thing,
the hay-stuffed shoes
worn at the heel
curved upwards at the toe
stretch the faded wig
into place
point the hand-mirror
at your face
and frown.