They write poems in Frogtown

The Malcontent don't do poetry, but fortunately our North Georgia correspondent, Candice Dyer, does. And the metaphors abound ...


I am the Samsonite

You threw me in that gorilla’s cage, where I took another beating

That felt like the softest caress

Compared to your cruel blows.

You thought TWA surely would lose me in

the shuffle, dropped through the hatch over Omaha, maybe,

All of our dirty laundry fluttering in the Gulf Stream,

Or maybe you plotted to leave me on the luggage carousel

In some abandoned airport.

Where I would spin ’round, making those sad, methodical laps for eternity,

jostling with a faded Louis Vuitton.

Far away from your anxious grasp on my handle.

But, no, you little carpet-bagger, you can not shed

Me so easily.

I am stowed in the bedroom of every new affair,

Just waiting to be opened like your own private Pandora’s box.

Like one of those old-fashioned steamer trunks covered

In stickers from strange lands, the kind that shows off the

Wanderings of its carrier, I let you stamp me

With each new attempt at love,

But you never stay in that place.

You always end up packing your bags,

By now, I am so full that you cannot snap me

Shut without sitting on me.

I am the Samsonite.