Baggage of Identity
There's a woman at a train station.
She is holding, in her right hand,
a suitcase with a brown leather strap.
Inside the suitcase, stuffed to the brim,
is her baggage of identity
hidden between the cracks of pant legs
and blouse tops. Shampoo bottles
full of secrets and keys that
lead to doors locked up tight.
The train squeals to a stop.
The wind swirls around the
woman's hair and she tightens
her grip on the baggage of identity.
She boards the train, a stranger,
among the crowded train station.
No one knows what is in the suitcase
except her. She holds on tightly
as she takes her seat and the
train begins to lurch forward
full of passengers and their
baggage of identities.