Lamenting the Perfect Purse

Standard

Of course you are animal skin.

Primal, supple, presumably false skin.

You are not a cheap tan, a big box brown. 

No, you are the color of aged muscat.

Amber from an ancient tree.

The bee’s best kept secret.

Three shades of snake and leather.

And you are soft.

Better than butter, melted in a congealing puddle

You are the pads of a puppy’s foot

Untouched by the ground, welcoming fingers.

You take to my hand like a tango

And tease me to whisk you away

To settle you on my arm, nestle you in my crooks,

Walk through the world with a new wonder.

Alas.

My shoe are frayed around the edges and dark on the soles.

There is no place for you in my world.

And so remain, oh fantasy of ownership,

A gentle, sad longing to ebb away until the next season.

 

 

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