Purse Taken

Softly he whispered, “mama” in my ear.
That name put me at ease and stirred in me no fear.
It was a name used by the younger to subdue the older.
I yielded and accepted the tug on my shoulder.

But I soon realized my purse from my shoulder, was ripped.

This time I’d left my purse unzipped.
Perhaps he wondered what treasures lay in its deep folds
And what pleasures he could have if my purse was his to hold.

Perhaps he had found its pink lining enticing,

Exotic, erotic, hypnotic, inviting.
But what was there to gain by his stealing?
The few dollars tucked away in a corner weren't revealing.

Did he want to ramble through my purse’s contents, as if to ramble through my panty drawer?

Or was he really after my address and the keys to my door?
Was he trying to gain an understanding of the things I held so near?
Or did he only want some change to buy himself a beer?

My purse meant so little to him than it meant to me.
My purse carried acknowledgement of my identity
And held within it access cards to my every resource.

Who or what would be there for me as recourse?

Would my purse be returned to me intact?

Did I have any hope to ever get it back?
Oh, the misery that did take hold,
The day I lost my power and my control.