Handbag
by Jack Arkell


 
Sorting through my
Father's possessions
in the house in which
he lived alone.
Under the bed
a handbag
that I recall
once belonged to
my Mother.
I pick out
a blank notebook,
its first few pages
ripped out,
and two dry lighters.
There's a bent cigarette
without its box
at the bottom of the bag.
A bus ticket
without a destination
and a faded receipt
from a Chinese restaurant.
I try to smell the bag
but it doesn't smell of perfume
or memories,
as much as I'd like it to.
It smells of old leather,
like the rest of the bedroom.
I close the bag
and consider driving it
over to my Mother's,
but think against it.
She'd have no use
for a dated bag
or empty lighters
No need for a stale cigarette
or a memory
probably best left
under the bed. 

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About the Author:  Jack Arkell is an English poet living in South Korea. His work has been published by Inigo, Anapest, Outsider, Under the Fable, Twelve Point Collective, Blunderwoman, Better Than Starbucks and The Hypertexts. He has performed poetry in the UK, China and Korea, appearing as a featured artist across the United Kingdom.

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