The Baggage Claim
We carry our suitcases on our shoulders while espousing philosophies on pennant stickers, as though we each had one that wasn’t a corkscrew for the wine of our urges. The old communist drank vodka and though he wished to travel the world, was a suspicious dirt farmer who didn’t even talk to himself; he kept his will buried in a box. The water sipping democrat infests the hotels of cities everywhere with laundered cash, an ego the prize of Texas, and a heart that rustles sour cream containers in restaurant alleyways. I see you through the collar of light where the lid fits the body of the valise. With gush and flush we mock when we meet, our Socratic monologues, the tabula rasas on which we pretend to stand.