a purse

you find
a woman's purse
on the street.
you pick it up
and look both ways.
there is no one around.
it's a nice purse.
a shoulder purse
perhaps. black,
leather like,
with a gold
clasp. you open
it and peek
inside. looking
once again
down the sidewalk
to see if anyone
is around.
you go to a park
bench and slowly
take your time.
a gentle archaeological
dig to find
whose it is.
lipstick, three tubes.
perfume, a watch
stuck on one time.
a ticket stub
to Lincoln, torn
in half. a police whistle.
kleenex and gum,
a hairbrush full
of black hair,
a compact,
a pen, a note pad
with a name
but no number written
on it. some coins.
a set of keys.
a laminated photo
of a bulldog
on his back.
saltine crackers.
a nail file, nail clippers.
lotions. hand, face,
body. small
hotel tubes.
a bar of soap still
wrapped.
there are m and m's
all about as well.
but no wallet, no id.
you close the purse
back up
and take it to where
you found it. you
hang it on a branch
on a sturdy tree.
what a nice purse
you think putting
your hands into your
almost empty pockets.