Pocket Puppets
She wanted to make a vest
lined in green lace and I said no--
no one does that. One pocket
had already been cut,
laid out, a tease of a square
with a full lining for hands.
The collar was collapsing
like a paper bag,
as I pleaded for another pocket,
one with a groove for her small thin veins,
because hands have to know they can
return home. Don't they dangle
from us long enough?
Let they have their rest
where the fists can be delivered.
Or open, slowly
in their closets, being nothing more
than what they are.
© 2009 Eclair
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