the old briefcase

i feel the shortness

of the day

before i leave the house.

leaving late is part of it.

lolly gagging

they call it.

listening to music.

trying to decide which

t-shirt

to wear with my khaki shorts.

i look out the window.

i see a man in his suit.

a cup of coffee

in one hand, his briefcase

in the other.

his wife is on the porch holding

a fat pink baby

that they made.

i can't take my eyes off 

the briefcase.

a briefcase?

i go to the attic and find

my old briefcase.

i wipe the dust off it.

i open it

and a dozen pens fall out.

erasers.

a shot glass from a bar

downtown

that's no longer there.

one silk stocking.

1985 the parking ticket reads.

i climb

the ladder down out

of the attic carrying the

briefcase.

i'm back in business.