[This poem was written using a prompt called “Talking Objects.” The idea is to find something in your purse or bag and write a poem from its perspective. My messenger bag had an old Kroger coupon, a pen, my busted wallet, car keys, house keys, and some tampons. I chose the busted wallet as my object and then considered the following questions: 1. What is the object’s favorite thing?  2. What is it scared of?  3. What is its secret?  4. What is its wish for the future? I spent some time thinking about how the wallet would answer these and then wrote the poem. The poem is told from the 1st person POV of the wallet.]

 

Busted Wallet

I was given as a gift, from husband to wife.

He said I was perfect because she loves books,

and I was made to look like one,

leather-bound, with a book-cover facade,

even though my pages would be filled

with coins and credit cards and receipts.

 

I was fat and happy in the old days,

before the broken zipper and the tattered edges.

When coins kept spilling out,

I was shoved deeper into the handbag trenches.

Now I’m forgotten, stuffed with refuse.

Bulging with unused gift-cards,

I am a mausoleum for bendable plastic.

No one can tell I’m a book anymore —

just faded green leather that’s somehow gotten sticky.

A natural process of decay.

 

The coins rattle around and hope to stay buried.

All the real money and credit cards

have been moved to a new home:

something sleeker, less solemn.

But she doesn’t get rid of me.

The wife still carries my hefty carcass in her bag;

I guess I’m a reminder of the gift.

Or maybe it’s inertia.

 

Either way, I’m happy to bear the load:

the old receipts and coupons past the date;

the Starbucks cards she knows she’ll never use.

They were gifts too. I’m happy to pocket them.

I’ll hold on to whatever has been forgotten.