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The Purse       A Time for Hope        Butterfly's Love        Perfection        The Walking Stick

Tiny Angel Footprints in My Heart        Two Bears One Bear       More Poems >>

The Purse

I asked my wife, one droopy day, “Where is a pen I can borrow?”
Her answer in voice stolid but sweet, “In my purse,” she said, to my sorrow.
“In your purse?” I cried in anguish. “In your purse?” with lump in my throat.
“I’ve been there before and have no desire to return. I’m not a goat.”

The last time there through its cavernous jaws, I was lost for a week or so.
I looked and looked for the sought after thing, looking over, under, above and below.
I crawled through the gum, keys, lipstick, rubberbands, the receipts, cards, pictures, smooth stones.
I thought I was stuck and couldn’t get out when the mousetrap crackled my bones.

What a mess I must’ve looked when I fell into the hair jell,
Then stumbled on the blocks, tumbling headfirst to the rocks, landing solidly with a yell.
“Help me,” I cried, as I scrambled to get out, but couldn’t find the way.
There was no light to see, nor air to breathe, no instructions to obey.

I fought as I panicked, slipping and sliding over something greasy and slimy.
I fell deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit, where I was lost, befuddled and grimy.
I whimpered and cried in complete despair, with no shame for my cowardly behavior.
Then to my relief, I heard her rescuing voice, “Are you alright down in there?”

“Yes,” I said, “of course I’m alright,” as I stood, straightening my clothes with a curse.
I vowed then and there, no matter what, when or where, never again to go into that purse.
So you must understand why I cried out in anguish when she suggested I look there for a pen.
After the initial shock, I jumped into the car and drove straight to the store for that item.

Then smug as can be, I showed her the pen, and said, “See I don’t need to look there in and out.”
And all she could say was, “A pen, was that what all the fuss was about?”
And reached her dainty hands with fingernails painted pink, into the monster with contraband,
And pulled out a pen with neither scratch nor a wince, and laid it gently in my hand.

Then she turned and walked away as if to cast an angelic hex,
And I could feel the sweet, piteous smile, and thought then, “This is the weaker sex?”

Now you may think that I mock my wife and her purse, with endless capacity.
But I really don’t mean to make fun of her so, you see I understand most completely,
How the purse and its contents relate to the call she received in the long-agoes,
Where she was to condescend amongst mortal men, and care for their wants and their woes.

Everything in that purse has a purpose to her call, to relieve and pamper that man,
Using each item as needed, when called to do so, and do everything that she can
To provide an atmosphere of serenity and peace, using all these wonderful tools;
But don’t you dare invade that depository, with surety you’ll be fools.

But even more profound, when symbolically mused and speculated,
Is how the purse and its contents, corresponds to what’s in her head.
It’s not hard to see, as she pulls out mind’s tools, the application to divinity’s call.
But if ever you think you can get into that head, you’re bound for a terrible fall.

Max Delano Beers
Aug. 1999