Suitcase

by Luke Otley

I get up to take a piss
glancing haphazardly at my suitcase
leaning forlornly against the wall
the colour of all walls
in characterless houses
The bathroom is very small
and my piss echoes
the stream of splashing toxins
can be heard from the hall
to which I return
I walk back to the other room
and again, gaze at my suitcase
now accusingly, and with some intent-
My suitcase doesn’t stare back at me
but merely leans against the cream wall
as easy as a greaser in a fifties flick
watching the honeys float on
and commenting on the hottest auto-mobiles that pass
I imagine this hot sticky street in nondescript America
born out of my ignorance and popular culture
as the light fades and the shadow of my case
lengthens like a yawn