Well Packed
Dec 1 2008


The luggage clatters on its rubber track
name-tagged and double clasped
into the dark cavern
of departures.
Where the black art
of baggage handlers
and bar-code scanners
propels it this-way-and-that.
Until if finally arrives
in some vast warehouse of vanished bags
in the desert
of Arizona.

Your padded parka and woollen mitts
sit impassive
amidst the sand,
while you shiver
in the clutch of winter
and northern lights dance.
You packed well, not fast,
and now can’t believe
how chance
back-stabbed and abandoned you,
re-dialling 1-800-“we-don’t-give-a-damn” —
some call centre in Bangalore
or Indiana.
Where they promise to trace lost bags
— good luck with that!

The indignity
of modern aviation,
leaving you cold and naked;
stranded in some foreign land
on hold.