"Don't get pulled over!"
she chides,
worries his man-purse
("murse" is what he calls it)
will put him behind bars
with real criminals.
It's the contents that do it,
the shrieking-yellow duct tape,
the hanger twisted into an 8,
the vice grips, the plug adapter,
the liquid cement in a tube.
She's concerned the cops will ignore
the three dry erase markers,
the dozen or so capped pens,
the stack of postcards advertising
Manassas Chorale's next performance,
the illustrated bookmarks
with the cover of his book,
then the actual softcover,
his name imposed
across a World War II B-17,
title in the clouds:
On Wings of the Morning.
He's just a seasoned soldier,
always prepared,
a writer on the go,
author of many voices,
lives to live and advice.
"Stay out of trouble,"
he says, slips the murse
across his shoulder,
dons his white fedora,
opens the door,
steps into a sudden
ray of sun.
Katherine M. Gotthardt
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