The ventriloquist comes out onto the stage
with a suitcase and slowly opens the lid
revealing a ragbag of characters, just as I do, as I once did.
As a sad little girl, my running-away suitcase
held my pencils, paper and Nicky, my doll.
All that I held precious was there in that case and that didn't change at all.
In the 60s, my fab pull-along suitcase
with Mary Quant daisies all over the lid,
held mini skirts that I'd made myself from some fabric designs I did!
Next a large wooden trunk with old brass fittings 
hand-painted by me in a deep navy blue,
became a refuge for my paints, cats and children sometimes, too.
Then carrier bags were all we needed
as I left my husband for freedom of mind.
According to him, he owned it all and so I left it all behind.
The case I owned next was smaller but roomy
as acquisition came once more to the fore.
My style became most important to me, my substance belittled once more.
Now older and wiser, I own many suitcases, 
trunks and overnight bags, some large and some small.
They hold nothing whatever precious to me as my heart now holds it all.