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.