Samson

If I were a suitcase
What tales would I tell?
Would I complain
About suitcase hell?
First class my ass,
While you travel in style,
I get manhandled
And tossed on a pile.

Samson was a suitcase, solid and proud. He had a metallic grey shell, an extendible handle and wheels that could take him anywhere. Samson was well travelled. He'd seen dreary, cold London and sunny Spain. Home, however, was in the closet of Bromley Place, Suburbia.

Samson heard talk about an African Safari. He had mixed feelings about a bush adventure. He wiggled his way into the deepest corner of the closet and hoped that the woman would opt for Carey, the backpack. Carey was a spontaneous, adventure loving kind of girl. Samson was sure Carey would love Africa.

Samson shuddered when he thought about his late grandfather, Samson the first. He never had the opportunity to get to know the old trunk, who was often away in deep, dark Africa. But Samson remembered the day the woman threw the dusty, brown and battered old bag out the window, into the dumpster below.

And then there was Samson the Second, he's father. Samson was still a young case, barely out of his wrapping, when Samson Sr. was reported lost. He had bravely taken on his duty to travel to Africa, but never returned.

"No", said Samson. "No Africa for me".

That's when he heard the bedroom door swing open and the man call out, "Get your suitcase love. The taxi is on its way".