The Things We Carry

At noon, the handbag rests against a chair,

a small dark moon with handles, clasp, and seam;

it holds the ordinary everywhere.

A key, a coin, a letter folded there,

receipts like leaves from some forgotten dream.

At noon, the handbag rests against a chair.

It travels through the weather without care,

through crowded stores and streets that flash and gleam;

it holds the ordinary everywhere.

A mirror catches fragments of the air,

a lipstick waits beside a tangled string.

At noon, the handbag rests against a chair.

What matters most is rarely placed with care:

a photograph, a note, a child's old bead—

it holds the ordinary everywhere.

And when the day's adventures disappear,

we set it down, still carrying the day.

At noon, the handbag rests against a chair;

it holds the ordinary everywhere.