Samsonite had balls big as the Carrier Dome

He earned them in the Plaque Mines

They were all he had to show

They were the desiccated jewels of his time

And schlepped along beside him

In a topiary grip made of winter privet

Thumbing to Webb City

He knew why the caged bird split

Imagine Mayakovsky’s kit

Or Magritte for American Tourister

A hamper of angelic underthings (on casters)

The portmanteau of Godot