a suitcase burst
on the bulkhead, its contents confetti –
papers, papers
gift receipts, train tickets
a sympathy card sliced
away and cut
a child’s cheek,
a bloom of perfume
rolls in like mustard gas,
the Chanel shattered
in a potent pool
of splintered twinkling slithers –
I watched him cut himself
in an attempt to save it –

and the heavy stuff, a favourite
freshly ironed shirt at muddied rest
a leather shoe tangled
in anniversary stockings
arrested, splayed
like musket riddled horse innards,
and their owner
dancing, touching
this and that
as if anything could be salvaged.

The rest of us watch
on our phones,
some film.