The Briefcase

A poem

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Here at The Enthusiast, we appreciate poetry as well as prose. We have a feeling that you do too. So, every Tuesday for the next few weeks, we’ll be publishing poems from our staff as a counterpoint to our Thursday prose articles. If the format works and you, dear readers, find that you enjoy them, we’ll make it a permanent part of the enterprise.

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I

"A little something for the graduate,”
And you handed it off like an infant,
Its baby-soft leather smooth
As a saddle’s pommel, glinting with expectation.

II

Its first rip was the snared edge
Of a hardback I thrust in a front pocket
Somewhere along the sidewalk
Between classes. I stared at it agape

As it flapped like a wingshot bird,
A teacher who couldn’t draw a lesson
From the ragged line
Of the unexpected.

III

At last it couldn’t be patched up
Or given away. Its sendoff
Was an unceremonious shove
Into a bedroom garbage can.

And for a moment I smelled again
The hot May air of Chattanooga,
Felt the mortarboard’s elastic
Clamped across my head and saw the road

Stretched out before me,
Glossed like new leather.

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