The Gun Metal Grey Clutch She gripped
As she tripped past but the content blew
Like a silver clam belching or a compact coughing
Nude dust Out came the talcum powder
As she lay snowing her hosiery
Toffee Brown Tote Floats Along the Thames like a maiden sailboat
Meant for fins Inside soak the batteries for the remote the moist toilettes
And a bachelorette’s street maps and Maoist leaflets miscellany O ketchup packets O saltine cracker packages O soup yesterday afternoon…
Basura Bags O Yesterday’s Soup and Crackers
and Socks you will send To the kids overseas
Who wait with empty juice containers and pop rings a laminated portrait Of a Papal order and the impossible 24-hour lipstick of every possible red To smear the collar of an infallible landfill
Chinese Laundry Oversize Zipper Top Hobo Bag & Braided Buckled Small Bucket Satchel—Inside, which sits a license to drive in some state
A pocket-sized journal that states she might even sell her clothes at a stoop Sale & trainhop westward with nothing to wash but her darkened hair Held up by chopsticks reading all the literature folded in the cookies and Greased on the metal cars
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