Sunday, October 20, 2013

A Poem

When I Walk

When I walk I pick up little objects
Rusted washers, old square nails, metal parts
that have been run over so many times
they have become a shape
bullets, an odd piece of wood,
pretty rocks
I used to bring my grandma a pretty rock from each
of my travels
Stripey granite from the Rockies
Stripey granite from the Alps
Fossils and quartz found near
Black flint and red sandstone found afar
Collected with the othering offerings
Brought by everyone and herself
And then, without her curating
The collection dwindled and dispersed
In the alleys I find the rusted things
Skins shaped by the traveled open ground
I had someone to bring them to
Offer them from my pocket every morning as I returned
Now they collect here
But by me
Waiting to be dispersed.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

The Old Purse

Despite its silly names
And accompanying misogynistic/homophobic jokes
"Murse," "Man Purse," "Fag Bag"
It has carried the stuff I don't want
  to stick in my pockets
Because it's bad
  to sit on a wallet
And I want my phone,
  my notepad, my little camera,
  my tire gauge, my pens, my miniature tripod,
  my checkbook, my reading glasses, my loose change, and that wallet
I rarely have enough pockets for all this stuff
  that I need regularly, that I use.
Where else can I throw those extra screws when I'm done with a job?
Not in my pocket because inevitably they will poke me in the groin.
And a little room left over for a snack, found object, measuring tape, carpenter's pencils
But it is worn out.
The strap is frayed.
The corners are frayed.
The cloth at the straps is frayed.
And she gave it to me.
Occasionally I remember that.
Another little stab of pain.
So it is finally time.
I can never remove everything from the world that we shared in some special way.
There are other things she gave me
  that I will eventually replace
But I can burn this old purse now
  and replace it.
Maybe with a courier bag.