poem about a suitcase

he drags this suitcase everywhere he goes,
with those cloggy wheels, tired,
because dirty stone is dirty stone, everywhere.
His walkging in fact hides no purpose worth prying into,
but he persists undying. There are minor bags
under his eyes, his saggy lids, to be filled.

No one is sure what's inside that trailing appendage.
Only the rattle of the container is a tell-tale sign
of a besmirched legacy. One he was never asked to accept.

Fellow so tired now, I think he's on nodding terms
with death, which he meets casually on the train every morn.
Death herself has to commute everyday,
since city centre steep rents have pushed the less well-to-do
to the uglier parts of the commuter belt.