Every woman that I ever met
Has a possession of hers that
I refuse to enter; not only
For her privacy, but for
Fear of the unknown.
It is not huge, but compact
Enough for her to carry,
With her, through out the day.
But then again, I have been
Witness to those that, us as men,
Could carry clothing for a months
Vacation to Bermuda.

THE PURSE! HER PURSE!
You know, the carry all,
When at the check out counter
She innocently asks,
"Honey, can you get my
Wallet out of my purse?" then
Adds with that come hither look,
That melts your heart and
Sends all logical thoughts
To the area below your belt.
"It's right on top."
The sweetness sucks you right in,
Just like THE PURSE is about to!

You gingerly open it, expecting
Something to spring out, like
A child's Jack in the Box.
But it doesn't spring up,
It springs OUT, like an
Over stuffed jelly donut!
Though not a sticky or colorful,
Never the less, just as stuffed.

The quest begins...

Archeological digs are easier..

Somehow, someway, Mt. Saint Helen
Just erupted, but no ash spewn.
Sections of stick gum, ranging
From the with of edge of a dime,
To full length pieces that
Somehow strayed from the comfort
Of their shinny abode; followed
By every receipt for purchases
Made in the last quarter of the
Twentieth century, to now,
Lay on top; no wallet to been
Seen, not in the first five
Inches.

Keys, lip gloss, eye shadow,
Of thirty different hues,
Foundation, powder, mints,
Paper money; still in bank
Envelopes, but NO WALLET!

After five minutes, she
Yanks her treasure carrier
Violently from your hand,
Finds the object in question,
In less time it took
To open Mt. Saint Helen.

Her come hither look was quickly
Replaced by that disgusted,
Stupid man, hating look.
Her sweet come hither look,
That brought thoughts of
Future recreation; replaced
In mind, by what she can
Do to herself!

There is more to tell
Of this relationship
Destroying pouch, but,
For now, my inner voice
Says beware...