She never went to the new superstore,
her local cost less, 'Cheap Stake' bought her more.
Rarely she glanced at each cool display stand,
cheaper each week, always lesser-known brands.
Dredged from the depths of her worn purse, she found
a lining of coins, pathetic, her mound.
A meagre supply she clutched, in her bag,
denied shops' bounty, or trolly-weight drag.
Pausing, so briefly, by warm Paper Shop,
certain she could not, afford now, to stop.
Her dreams left untouched, with lottery card,
her bills were chance-paid, reminders hit hard.
She reached home depressed and slammed shut the door,
groceries unpacked, still spartan her store.
Pan-boiled, her cuppa, a tin-meal unmade,
flicked radio switch and heard of a raid.
A great haul taken, the shop down her road,
a full day’s takings, so massive their load.
She muttered, to hear her own doorbell ring,
slammed chain-locks aside, and let the door swing.
A young man, polite, discussed charity,
she fumbled with purse, but knew he could see.
Some paper he pushed, bare, into her hand,
“I’m Robin, ” he breathed. “Just one of the Band.”
Purple, brown papers attracted her eye,
puzzled, she looked up, to wish him 'Goodbye'.
Yet there was no-one, in place where he'd stood,
just glimpsed, down the road, the back of a hood.
Wendy Webb
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-empty-purse/
