SOFT LEATHER

SOFT LEATHER

Mother has a thing

about leather purses

I catch her sitting on the fluffy

quilt she always spreads

over the bed where she sleeps

with my father

holding a purse to her face

pressing it against her cheek

closing her eyes

the soft brown calf skin

under her nose

breathing it in like a drug

like a memory

and always

we went to the boot repair shop she said,

to check on some shoes

your father left to be resoled

and she never asked the man

white-haired, one-eyed

behind the counter

a thing

we just stood for a moment

by the display of purses, belts

in from the cold, breathing slowly

her eyes far away

with something resurrected

from childhood

something having to do

with the scent of saddles

saddlebags, leather straps

she would look up like waking

Come on, Scott, the shoes aren't ready

and we would step out the door round

the corner into the wind and head for

home.