To you I’ve become a coat pocket. Closet-kept.
You turn me out and find nothing But crumbs and lint.
A receipt possibly
Or even a mint
From the wicker basket
Near the exit of your favorite Mexican restaurant.
I can still see you
Push the guac across the plate With a broken chip.
I can still sit there
Of what makes a pocket
The recurring state of emptiness Or the fate to be filled?
That I did not flinch
When you reached in for the wallet But I did see you wince
When I took your hand in public.
That is the difference.
I guess that is how I know
I am not a pocket,
Only one of us can hide what it holds.