The sunset’s like a chromatograph
the pinks travel faster than blues.
I’m clearing the clutter from my bags
decades of paper residues -
foldable maps that fit in wallets
from trips in far places, now collapsed
loose currencies in zippered pockets,
coupons of the vanished and lapsed.
Clean darkness wipes out the mess of clouds,
my cases too are stripped of stubs,
the pocket corners duly turned out
the labels off, the metal rubbed.
Yet there’s a faint patch - that stubborn glue
just won’t come off whatever I do.