came out with my neighbour’s grandfather
sixty, no, seventy years ago,
all the way from England. We stare
in silence at the honourable pilgrim.
His young boy’s sole luggage
is a tome called Piratology,
embossed with rubies and emeralds
and a working compass on the cover.
It quivers throughout the flight, nervous-making.
Inside, transfixing the boy, are pop-up castles
which he plunders in his imagination,
and maps of buried treasure to be
relentlessly pursued, mother or no mother.
My case is newish, sleeker, from the people
who make the Swiss Army knife.
I bought it for the logo
but must never tell Security.
Today it holds a comb, a gift
and one pressed, acceptable shirt.
I’m only going for one night,
Fidelio in Adelaide.
Time permitting (yes, let’s break our pact)
there’ll be a cocktail, then the second half:
a Rob Roy, a Sidecar, an Edward VIII,
something only you know how to mix.