Story of a Purse

i'm sure there are good cops out there; i just haven't met any. a true story...

After a night of booze,

An old friend and I

Walk the sidewalks and dirt paths

Of a college town,

Spitting out drunken stories

About our first days

Seperated from parents and first loves.

A white leather purse

Dangles from my hand,

Awaiting its owner back home.

 

A shrill voice calls out in the darkness,

So I slip out a sigh of “s**t”

Before facing The Man

Disguised as a petite blonde female.

Her face is all scrunched up

Like a handful of toilet paper,

And I bet she’s imagining

A half-dead gutter skank

Lying in a ditch somewhere

While I make off with her twenty-two dollars

In small bills and mixed change.

I recognize her partner

As the guy who used to burn pot

And parade it around the room

At all the R.A. trainings

Because the room full of straight arrows

Couldn’t recognize the smell

Even if it was deflowering their sister

In the room next door.

 

I want to challenge her,

But the beer on my breath

Holds my tongue on lockdown.

I don’t need any more ghosts

To keep me up at night.

Call her ma’am,

Don’t sneak a peek at her chest,

Let her think she’s in charge,

And don’t bring up the Bill of Rights

Or any other trifles

That would get her steel panties bunched up.

 

I get the hen’s feathers smoothed over

And set off again with the Bolivian

Who I tell is why I got stopped in the first place.

A miniscule bit of the weight

Hefted by yellow stars and black hides

Weighs more than I ever imagined.