Pockets

9.13.06

There is silt in his pants pockets

deep, dark and gritty.

It colors the bills he keeps there,

the loose threads from his seams,

and the tiny crevices on a coin's edge.

Large hands never rest inside

longer than the task to retrieve

an object of necessity,

these hands which could sculpt

and caress and rain a

thousand blows of fury.

Fingers that sometimes play

and want to tickle,

trail tenderness in their wake.

But hands get tied

and pockets fill

and who will turn them

inside out?

A grocery list, a key

perhaps

but nothing mroe than space

can replace the shadow

dark within.