Surely it was only yesterday -
close as a handbag on my shoulder
tucked below my arm, its reassuring bulk.
But when I feel for it I find it's gone,
a pickpocket has cut the straps,
swift as thieves on a Sicilian Vespa.
And when I'm questioned at the form-fill
desk, (the badges, fans, intolerable
length of afternoon,) I find that it was
daysweeksmonthsyears since I last
snapped the clasp and rummaged round
inside. Its shape dissolves. A face mists
in the mirror which I barely recognise.
If you have any comments on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.