Seen on Easter morning in St. Paul

Waiting for the light, I saw
two (men?) on the other side
climb over the waist-high
pipe and concrete railing
lifting with them a suitcase,
black, canvas, long-handled.

Crossing, I glanced down
to where they descended still
toward the railroad tracks,
crashing loudly in last winter’s deadfall branches,
no woodcraft here.

The suitcase,
designed to roll airport concourses,
could never hop a freight.
Did it hold clothes? A bottle?
Or all his worldly goods?

A block away, I paused, looked back,
could not see them in the brush,
but still heard branches cracking
as they went


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