The Clutch Handbag

Black bombazine with grosgrain binding,
a clasp of diamanté butterflies and a row
of bevelled ivory sequins threaded with slipknots.

Finesse. A lipstick of a certain red,
a bronze compact, the cachet
of an embossed cigarette case.

Emerald lining that is like glossy music
from a dance-hall band or the sheen
of sable eyes on the mink stole

whose snout rounds on the very shape
of a tear in the satin no bigger than
her incarnadine thumbnail

through which five decades
have slipped like small coins
skittering the open notes

of a foxtrot or an old-time waltz
that nobody, but nobody,
recalls.

from Spindrift

By kind permission of the author and The Gallery Press