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
handy.
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.