...on a baggage rack, on a train, in an anecdote by Hitchcock about the Scottish Highlands.
Julian Assange listens to the story, but refuses to point to the suitcase.
He's keeping a low cover, twisting his drink tickets between his fingers as if they were plot coupons in a story vehicle about narrative progress. He thinks if he can crack the suitcase, he'll have bought himself a new life.
All good poems are effectively autobiographies of the macguffin.