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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Purse

There is no conundrum vaster than a purse.
With rumpled swans of Kleenex,
sticks of scarlet grease.
Coins lost in the crevices of the bottom.
Gum for worried chewing.
Mirrors and combs.
Powders for lightening the skin,
darkening the skin.
Pads of ink for tracing the eyes
with dainty brushes.

A cornucopia of notes and paper,
lists, reminders, but no hurried
lines of poetry, for which there is no time.
A small technological wonder
for pressing keys that take photographs,
sends calls, receives messages,
provides the weather.
And pills for good humor,
low blood pressure, arthritis,
pep ups, tranquilizers, aphrodisiacs,
hallucinogens and breath sweeteners.
But most touching,
most valuable,
pictures of lovers, children, friends,
and the owner of the purse
in winsome poses.

All that is the beginning
of an archaeological treasure,
lost over a canyon,
falling into a rock slide
and immediately covered
from wind and weather,
to be found a million eons from now.
A Rosetta stone of wife, girlfriend,
mother,
not unlike the discoverer,
fussing through her purse
for a pen.

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