Three minutes, forty-six seconds

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“Would you like to go out tonight? Said Tristan to Isolde…”
I am sitting in a corner, writing
Looking at an old cranberry couch with two brightly striped pillows
Fiesta-ware fabric resting after the festivities
A dining table covered in bottles
“God I love you, but you trouble me…”
Two dingy socked feet, sticking out from under a cream-colored blanket
A beautiful, untouchable arm grazing the floor
And a poor girl, unable to do more than gaze and write
“It’s ok I guess, but that story’s pretty old…”
Sitting wistful in a sunny patch of a small room
Afraid of time
The perfect length of a self-preserving memory
A curio-cabinet feature in the making
To be dusted off for future cherishing
This memory should not last longer than a song
“Said Tristan to Isolde…”

Lamenting the Perfect Purse

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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.