I don’t carry a purse.
I never have.
Wallet and keys.
Never wore make-up.
Don’t like to look in the mirror.
Bite my nails.
What’s the point?
Pockets are for stuff.
Purses are just something to put down and forget.

Sure, my truck can be like Mary Poppin’s carpet bag.
Leashes, dog treats, towels.
Bungee cords, rope.
Pens, bandaids, business cards.
Peanuts for the hungry.
It even has that mirror (or 3)
that I don’t carry in my non-existent purse.
What ya lookin’ for? I might have it.

These days in my pocket is a cell phone.
For safety it goes everywhere.
But around the farm
No keys or wallet.
They are things
To lose in the tall grass or the deep manure.
Sheep don’t take credit cards (or paypal either)
Jura does the driving, without a license, or keys.

And yet my pockets
Are full of things now.
In the summer, my jeans creep down
Towards my knees with their weight.
When it cools my hoodie
Looks like chipmunk cheeks.
Laundry day brings surprises.
And reminders of recent projects.

So I ask,
What would be in my purse
If I had a purse?

Instead of a nail file,
There would be a utility knife.
No lipstick
But a livestock marking crayon.
No hair scrunchie
But always a bungee
A voltmeter, vise grips.
No pen but maybe a headlamp.

I hear tell all purses
Have trash in them.
Instead of gum wrappers,
I’d have baling twine,
A broken ear tag
Not a singleton earring,
A few stray nails (not of the human kind)
Perhaps a rusted screw

Some stray piece of weathered duct tape
Found drifting across a field
Little bits of shredded hay and straw…
Snips of wire from a fence repair
And of course, the discarded syringe
From Joe’s recent dewormer shot.
And one glove
Because I dropped the other – somewhere in the back field.
It is a good thing that I don’t go through airport security.