Carousel

Florida nineteen eighty

A man in a wrinkled white shirt

sleeves turned up three times each

Vuarnet sunglasses

watches a suitcase rounding the luggage carousel

like a hot-walking horse—American Tourister

pacing the gaudy vacation bags.

He sees through the Vuarnets

past the carousel

a California garage

where the suitcase’s false bottoms were built.

He hears the chugging laughter of a fat cop in Lima

snorting white powder

from the tip of a knife blade.

An ulcerous leper in front of the Arequipa hotel

holds a hat out toward him

as he walks by

with a suitcase full of American hundreds.

Time is a triple beam scale—his ass in the balance

green nerves for weights—that comes to rest

as he reaches for the suitcase’s handle

gliding toward him like the reigns of a horse.