Poetry

A recently rediscovered note from a girlfriend

second-place winner in This Magazine's 2006 Great Canadian Literary Hunt; published in the September/October 2006 issue

My purse hates you.
I asked it and it
hates you.
Don't ask me why.
I took a poll of the contents and they
don't like you either, not all of them,
not much.
The lipstick likes you
well enough, it's on your side,
which is ironic because
you don't like it.
My gum wrappers detest you.
The Kleenex® could not care less
if you live or die. Very hard,
the Kleenex®.
The loose change feels
it owes nothing to you. The clippers
want you out of their life.
The pads — oh, forget about them.
That program from the show
you took me to turns out to think
you're a bit of a dweeb, ironically.
I should throw it out, though.
My nail polish thinks you're an asshole.
Very vulgar, crude little nail polish,
that bottle.
The keys are favourably disposed
towards you, they have some nice memories
of time spent with you.
The wallet — well, the wallet's
a whole other neighbourhood.
But it got together and made a statement:
It thinks you should find a new life.
The tweezers just think you're icky.
All the rest of the stuff
can't even remember your name.
"Who?"
So what I'm telling you, in short, is
you'd do best to stay away from my purse.