Weather-beaten though they may be,
The leather and the woman in it;
It serves the larger goal of withering
That relationships undergo, in time, and
Some times out of time.
I make friends and in time they melt away
As friends are wont to do with
The sweet fragrances of friendship gone stale.
I plant flowers and they bloom
To fade
With a tired yawn
Into the darkling night.
I smoke cigarettes and with life
They burn the paper
Into
Inert ash.
There’s no reason why,
An e-mail should not end everything.
The leather of my purse will outlive
The girl it has so long imprisoned.
2001
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem