I.
My suitcase for going home
A curling iron, a hair dryer
A tool kit assortment of mismatched tools
Left by men who left broken
Pieces of pieces too foregone
To conclude by a stick of glue
(The pieces were not stolen)
The TV. Thirty-inch something
I think said the man when
I went to buy (but men
Always lie about size)
Blue-ray, pictures (memories),
Markers, but no books
Or poetry (I guess he was not
Concerned about literacy)
Underwear I never wear
Nail polish red burnt orange
Purplish pink (and yellow I think)
Kitchen gadgets never used anyway,
and my security,
My sense of safety, my
Unencumbered sleep (but
Left the terrors and bad dreams)
II.
He left the fridge open
The ice cream fell out
Melting on the floor for days
Wiped away by a price
I almost couldn't afford to pay
III.
The laundromat. I go
To clean clothes and escape
Football. But the TVs
Scream sports in every
Section. Crowds cheer
And the washer clears.
The thumbs of men
Plant prints on my skin no matter
Which places I wear.
IV.
I know the man who robbed me
He gave me a ride home then
He gave my home away
To the first pawn shop sold.
V.
When the chime breaks
I'll know--fluff and fold,
Play, tackle, pass,
Press "start" for permanent,
Pass my suitcase, it's
Always packed.
My missing artifact.
I'll stack the pieces packed
And ring wet where stains
Have set. Wire hang what ball
That kicker can't fit
Inside his money clip. Days.
Months. Tireless, tired. Oh.
I'm only angry now, time to hit
The path. Cause that road home
May be long, but the road
To no home is the longest.
—Erin Passons, 1-2013
