The Baggage Claim
We carry our suitcases on our shoulders
while espousing philosophies
on pennant stickers, as though
we each had one that wasn’t a corkscrew
for the wine of our urges.

The old communist drank vodka
and though he wished to travel the world,
was a suspicious dirt farmer
who didn’t even talk to himself;
he kept his will buried in a box.

The water sipping democrat
infests the hotels of cities everywhere
with laundered cash, an ego
the prize of Texas, and a heart that rustles
sour cream containers in restaurant alleyways.

I see you through the collar of light
where the lid fits the body of the valise.
With gush and flush we mock 
when we meet, our Socratic monologues, 
the tabula rasas on which we pretend to stand.
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