The suitcase

There are suitcases, and then. There's the one
On the bench, scrapes to match the flaking paint
Of a life travelled, of a world promised.

Then there's the one by the skip, deemed unfit,
Left for dead. It has hinges to hang on,
And a handle, and hopes. So long, they said.

There's the one in the shop window, posing
Like a slick wholesale holiday machine,
All plastic, sunshine and scuba diving.

And then, there's the one I saw you leave with
Wheels bouncing off the uneven pavement,
At the edge of the street, over the hill.