they’re drawn like flies
to the purse store,
the women walking along
down town.
i watch as they each in turn
pull the door open and
reverently adore the
soft squeals of pleasure
wrap around the
leather and suede collections,                                                                                                                                                                                                                    cheetah print and zebra stripes.

is it refinement, mere
civilization that drives
pastels and paisleys,
art and noise?

or is it captivity, mere
servitude to things that
are beyond our control and
beyond our consciousness?

they will leave laden
with feminine treats,
learned or programmed
for the love off purses.

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