The Rough Tote

The checkout line, a shuffling queue,

I grabbed the bag they had for sale.

Its weave was coarse, a dusty hue,

a sturdy, plain, utilitarian veil.

It smelled of earth, a primal scent,

not plastic, slick, or made to gleam.

On simple errands, it was sent,

fulfilling some domestic dream.

The straps dug in, a rough embrace,

as groceries pressed against my side.

A functional, unlovely grace,

with nothing at all to hide.