Four little kids – early fifties

not much cash for stylish clothes.

Time, promotions, and a raise in pay

led to new ensembles: a dress or two,

shoes to match, and my Sunday purse.

A true art deco contraption

shaped like a small shoe box -

hard black glass-like sides

edged in shiny brass.

No matter that it didn’t hold much

it was just for church: a packet

of cheerios to quiet the baby,

clean hankie, the offering envelope,

and perhaps a comb.

After the service I liked to stand around

chatting with my friends – kids scuttled

at my feet, playing touch and run.

With the arched brass handle

slung across my arm

the purse hovered above them.

Catching the corners with their heads

the sharp impact

brought them to a halt

faster than my weary words could do.