Briefcases

Fifteen years ago I found my father's

    in the family attic, so used

       the shoemaker had to

repair it, and I kept it like love

until it couldn't be kept anymore.

    Then my father-in-law died

       and I got his, almost

identical, just the wrong initials

embossed in gold. It's forty years old,

    falling apart, soon

       there'll be nothing

that smells of father-love and that difficulty

of living with fathers, but I'd prefer

    a paper bag to those

       new briefcases

made for men living fast-forward

or those attaché cases that match

    your raincoat and spring open

       like a salute

and a click of heels. I'm going

to put an ad in the paper, "Wanted:

    Old briefcase, accordion style,"

       and I won't care

whose father it belonged to

if it's brown and the divider keeps

    things on their proper side.

       Like an adoption

it's sure to feel natural before long—

a son without a father, but with this

    one briefcase carrying

       a replica

comfortably into the future,

something for an empty hand, sentimental

    the way keeping is

       sentimental, for keep-

sake, with clarity and without tears.

-- Stephen Dunn

From New and Selected Poems 1974-1994