Baggage - Maggie Tate

During your afternoon sleep
I reach for my suitcase.

The huge pear tree laden
with summer's ripe fruit
bends the branches low -
only just beyond reach.
The stretched-thin garden
ends at a high brick wall.

I reach out to touch you -
only cot-sides separate us
in this primrose-lemon room
where you breathe easily.

On this temporary bed,
sheets are stripped and folded;
familiar smells will be washed away.
My open suitcase waits,
wants closure.

This dented door handle
survived air-raids; feels brass-cold
to my touch as I look back
at the room, the window,
the cracked lino by the bed.

The suitcase snags my nylons
as I close the door behind me.