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Pockets.

The forest is replete with secrets,
the pockets that protect them.

Dark hollows full of mystery and intrigue
hidden codes, stories.
Veracities.

Boo Radley gave them great fame.
As did Perry Como. Falling stars
and all.

We love pockets (or is it the secrets)?
To carry a surprise. A little bomb
of the unknown. In the dark.
Fingered as we walk.
Just a coin or key. A smidgen of
‘Guess what?’
between our skin and jacket.

I know something you don’t
know.

Emptied onto the dresser
at night. Or left behind
for the washer
to destroy.

Body pockets
born with them.
Private pockets.
Shhhhhhhhh . . .
Nostril. Throat. Armpit.
Down there.

I know something you don’t
know.

Sometimes what goes in.
Never.
Comes.
Out.
Sparks.
They burn holes
in pockets, pussies or souls.

Tupperware for truth.
Treasures.
Ammunition.

Or just a home. For a critter.
A spider or two.
No harm.
No foul.

Pockets.

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