Pa sent my steamer trunk by rail from San Francisco.
Every two or three days I go down to the train station, but it still hasn’t arrived.
The big trunk is filled with my stuff.
My spare spectacles.
My pair of shoe horns.
The tintype photo of Aunt Bess and my cousin Calvin.
It’s been 40 years, and I’m still waiting.
My children were born, grew up, left home.
I’m still waiting.