How devastatingly urgent this compulsion --
this can’t not --
as I rummage through my bag
which is acting all passive aggressive & withholding,
like I don’t know all it does for me:
lets me carry unnamed & uncountable detritus around.
Sitting next to me, in the supposed-to-be hushed pew
my dear friend -- also a writer --
knows just what I’m jonesing for.
She dives into her own voluptuous sack:
unzipping resounds in the great hall,
loud the crinkling paper,
for what seems like the rest of the service.
At last, I see success on her face.
She extends to me her open hand:
in her supple palm,
not the sought-after pen or pencil,
but a pristine tampon
that nearly interrupts the sermon
with our mischievous delight!
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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