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, New and Selected Poems:1974-1994 (Norton, 1994)