A Theft    Surely it was only yesterday - close as a handbag on my shoulder tucked below my arm, its reassuring bulk. But when I feel for it I find it's gone, a pickpocket has cut the straps, swift as thieves on a Sicilian Vespa. And when I'm questioned at the form-fill desk, (the badges, fans, intolerable length of afternoon,) I find that it was daysweeksmonthsyears since I last snapped the clasp and rummaged round inside. Its shape dissolves. A face mists in the mirror which I barely recognise.

Maggie Butt

If you have any comments on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.