Mr Handbag

 

The cackling sound 

of old led

sat and placed us 

with a person

 

It echoed out his life

and coughed up

three CD’s

 

so we sat.

 

darkness and fingernails

ran out of the room

leaving only me 

with Mr Handbag

 

his corduroy sweatpants

leaked receipts

covered in syrup

or was it marmite?

 

my heart began to bleed

 

I felt his etiquette

seeping into the air

It trickled on his ‘troop’ satchel

staining it with a smile

 

with rice and water

I ripped out his heart

and shook it

leaving it teary on the floor

 

we loaded the van.

 

throwing in with him

his seats

his £3

his scars, pictures even

 

sometimes we watch him in a song but

he only stands there

he just frowns