A woman’s purse is inviolable territory
she tells me, and no man dare look within
unless invited and that is as unlikey to happen
as a man is to fully understand a woman.
What she doesn’t say, but what time has
demonstrated to me repeatedly, is that
within that small space is the solution
to most of life’s pressing problems, a balm
for small emergencies, and a truth, the release
of which would loose upon those proximate
the sort of shock that Pandora only promised,
and I have more than enough problems of my own.
She asks what I keep in my over-fatted wallet
and I tell her it is not money, but thoughts
that haven’t come to fruition, and dreams
unrealized because they defy reality.
So, she says, your wallet is full of the stuff
that gets you through a day, that give you
hope for the next, and that marks your
ever present failure of irrational dreams.
The phone is again ringing,
and the odds say it is someone
who wants to extend my warranty
on the car I no longer own,
or to lower my credit card interest
though I never carry a balance,
or to help me fix my computer if I
just hand over control to them.
I won’t answer this time, almost
never do unless I know the caller
and want to speak to them,
robocalls, despised as they are
do provide a convenient excuse
not to speak to the long lost friend
who only needs a short term loan,
or the charity always wanting more.
Many want the government to act,
to ban or limit these calls, and I
agree, but be prepared to answer
when I call about the money you promised.
The money wasn’t really real then,
it came in a box with a board,
dice and property deeds, and it
was in colors, one for each denomination,
(kind of like and Canada and other countries).
It was fun having a lot of it
until the first time I snuck some
out of the house and went off
to the variety store, I’d had my eye
the magic kit they had tucked
in the front window, forgotten, now
clearly the only one of its kind.
I asked the shopkeeper how much,
he said it’s been here so long
I can’t remember, so it’s yours for a buck.
I gave him a 10, pale yellow
he laughed, said that’s foreign
so it will be 990 for the magic kit
and I can’t make change but I’ll
throw in a Mars bar if that’s okay.
It was the one and only time
that trick worked.
Why do the televangelists
beg and cajole me,
constantly ask me
for my money?
Surely they must know
that in Eden
which they promise,
we are all naked
and have no pockets.
Somewhere in here there is
a hidden irony, not irony really,
but a close enough approximation.
We are creatures of softness, we
relish textures that yield to our touch,
would rather be swaddled than armored,
vastly prefer the kitten or puppy
to the armadillo or porcupine.
It’s all about softness really.
And despite this primal desire
for pillows and down filled duvets,
when it comes to measuring value
we’re all about corners and hardness,
about solidifying our financial position.
And while we crave bills and coins,
our ultimate measure of success
are those crystals formed over eons,
made hard by pressure and time,
for those are the jewels of our existence.
She says she feels like she is getting to the end of her rope. He tells her to hold on more tightly, that he will search for additional rope and when he finds it, tie the new rope to the old. She says he could just go out and buy a new rope, much longer that the one to which she is clinging. He says she would have to pay for it and to get the money, she would have to let go of the rope to which she clings. She lets go of the rope and walks away, leaving it in a jumble at his feet.