A Mysterious Case

They lay on conveyor belts,
old men without homes
for a few moments or hours,
their dusty suits
torn, split zippers and keychains.
Inside they are the same
kind of used-up dandy
depending on whether
they were on their way out
or home from the affair.
All kinds of people gather
to take one more glance
at them before heading off
in other directions.
Foreign notes tucked
into the deep pockets
hide for years on end
and never tell anyone
who they are or about the hours
spent away from home
comparing New Orleans
to Memphis and Memphis
to New Orleans using
schedules full of pleasure
and profit, blessed pastimes
in locales unknown
except to those
who go there
for misadventure, those
who read upside down.
How to unpack this baggage,
how to go on home.
The spider, they say,
eats his house
and rebuilds it
the very next day,
weaving the spew
into several sticky traps.