Friday, May 27, 2011
Digging around in pockets
Reaching into your pocket,
searching for clues
not wanting the answers,
not really, but fishing anyway,
I find a handful of fear and
alot of uncertainty.
No surprises there, I think.
I compare it to all of mine and drop it in the trash.
in that little pocket in front,
I find a ball of hatred,
so hard and intense
It was too hot to handle,
and better left alone.
finding many holes
where assorted dreams
and hollow promises dropped out,
left strewn about in the wake
of your stumbling steps.
I find harpoons of reality and
disappointments among the debris.
And in a back pocket I find what I am looking for.
I knew it had to be somewhere, after all.
In that back pocket i find a small packet of crushed spirit,
balled up tight like a cigarette package.
Gently I pull it out and fluff it a bit, giving it air.
It gives a little chirp when touched, a bright hopeful sound.
It trembles in my hand.
Weak and misshapen from lack of attention.
I feed it drops of my blood, and it laps hungrily, tongue lolling for more.
It looks up with puppy dog eyes and nuzzles my hand.
The other things I put back into pockets.
This I keep to feed.