My Grandfather’s Coin Purse

Real leather—not cheap imitation

A metal frame—hinged—with clasp

Still works

Opening with a finger-flip

There’s the button-down pocket

Well-remembered.

“D’you wanna get a soda-pop?”

Those trips to town recalled

With warm sensations arising

From somewhere deep inside.

Out would come the leather treasure pocket

Never failed me.

I have it now—carry it with me

Just like he did—(He’s gone—cancer got him at 76)

Leather separating from metal

And grain nearly worn off in places

Speaks volumes.