Baggage

Don’t expect a body
dropping from a high floor —
she’s already tucked into a dive
bar in a basement. I’m not going to mention
crumpled hosiery, how taillights fillet
wet asphalt and leave bleeding ribbons in their wake.
Find another poem if you want a discussion
about the Cheetos wrapper swirling
in the storm drain, the whoosh of tires
on rainy streets and the cold air surging
and retreating in rhythm with the door.
Union workers will filter in. A waitress will
yell, Maybe in your dreams, Paulie,
loud enough for everyone to hear.
I’m not going to tell you about any of that.
No. This is a poem about a woman at the end
stool and the way her lipstick print on the tumbler
confronts her with proof of life
on the rim. You can assume
the light trails & wounded pavement,
the crumpled hose & traffic noise are all inside her
purse. She’s left the Cheetos wrapper
to take its chances in the rain.

Lorrie Ness is a poet working on the east coast of the United States. Her works can be found in numerous journals, including Palette Poetry, THRUSH, Trampset, Poetry Online, and Sky Island Journal. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. Her chapbook Anatomy of a Wound was published by Flowstone Press in 2021 and her debut collection Heritage & Other Pseudonyms will be published by Flowstone Press in 2023.

Read more of Lorrie here.