contents of my bag

i'm rifling through a bottomless bag. it's paisley patterned, not carpeted - but almost mary poppins territory. the first thing i find is a blue leather wallet, filled with plastic oblongs and copper coins, a few notes if i'm lucky ... there's a poetry society membership card, a national insurance number and natwest (the fuckers). all clues to me, myself and i, or my identity anyway. the lavender roller ball is for dabbing on that delicate spot on the inner wrist at stressful moments. the grotty labello lip balm is almost empty, after fighting a raging battle with the winter's chapping effect.

i grip a phone (necessary evil, cheapest going, but still somehow i'm always texting like a fiend!) and also several books, which i love to love. there is a notebook and pen combined with the crackling of empty cigarette packet plastic. there's very rarely a lighter. often, there are several bus tickets, crumpled and scrunched, representing days of my life. there are always, always inhalers. i'm fearful of losing my breath as ever. and last of all come the keys. attached to plaited leather that's seen better days - and is long, so as not to lose them. jingling, jangling with the sound of home comforts; they take me to another door, another space to fill. i won't even get started on my bedroom.