I am curled up in an old canvas mailbag
hanging from a hook
mounted to the outside wall
of an old brick hotel
on what used to be the outskirts of town
but is now just another cluster of tenements.
There are still hitching posts out front,
tilting at crazy angles in the cement.
All the farmers used to come here
on their way back out of town
after hawking their harvest at the markets.
The bag is worn thin, patched in places.
I could easily kick my way out,
but I don't think I will.
I think I'll just rest here
another century or so,
wait for the horses to return,
listening for the hammering of their
rusted shoes against the crumbling asphalt