Empty Purse

Switching handbags is quite a job. 

I’m always surprised 

by what I find at the bottom:

dirt, gum wrappers, 

failed attempts at polaroid pictures,

receipts, dried-out mascara, earring backs,

and a red guitar pick: 

all things that

belong in the trash. 

Maybe it wasn’t about the bag. It was about the hand

that you didn’t hold

in front of your friends. Maybe 

it was about the hands that I slapped 

together at your shows, cheering 

for the shy guitar player with the messy 

hair. But your hands were too busy 

strumming guitar strings to applaud the dancer,

or even touch her. 

Maybe it was about the songs you wrote, 

which were never about me. Or about the 

sand in between our skin that night 

on the beach, when we threw rocks 

off the jetty and you told me 

all about your plans for the future.

There was sand in my purse for months, even

after the summer ended 

and you were long gone. 

So out comes the sand, and the dirt,

and the polaroid pictures you never smiled for, 

the old mascara tube, 

the mascara that ran down my face

the night you got on that plane.  And though 

I linger when I spy that red

guitar pick, I know 

there is no use in carrying it around

any longer.