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 

And think 

Of what makes a pocket 

A pocket. 

Is it 

The recurring state of emptiness Or the fate to be filled? 

I’ll admit 

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. 

I guess 

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.


Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *