Four pockets hang on to my old jeans,
each one clapped on tight as rivets.
The home and garden variety pocket,
stuffed with family, in-laws, outlaws,
flood and car repairs, shoe bills, vet bills.
This bag-of-stones swings me back on track:
full of crumbs, of hilarity, fur balls, ironing boards(?),
stitches-in-no-time, lists, photographs, crayon art,
...cartoons that have fallen off the fridge.
My writing pocket, top right just right,
unborn-twin snug against my hip
overflows with pens, ideas, journals,
frustration, demands, deadlines.
This place of wings and dreams,
failures and wins, glimmers of hope —
the curtain pulled back now and then,
...the place where my feet skip earth.
The career pocket tight plastic
seared onto my backside:
learn, plan, teach, mark, report ...protest
get to the next meeting, never ever sit down.
Ups, downs, ins, outs, and roundabouts,
where little hands fold origami cranes, just for me,
and bright eyes sparkle through February dullness
...fill the long months with the joy of the eternal spring.
My last pocket, small, deep, and zipped up tight,
holds the essence of a child who loved everything —
cows and lanes, swamps, and apple trees,
mud puddles and the night sky.
A space that simmers the aftershock of concrete,
loss, inequality, and the deceit of false friends;
a visceral hybrid of Pandora's box
...and all the treasures of Aladdin.
From The Open Window Anthology, Volume 2
(Hidden Brook Press 2000)
