IN ALL THE POCKET
OF MY MEMORY
When I empty them, sometimes, at night,
things fall out. Accumulated hardtack of a
long day's night. I pick up things along the
way; the seeds of dreams and buttons; the
old nails of distant sheds and bridges. I have
no currency except for the idle riches of dream.
In that respect, I am the billionaire I think about,
the man with the spacious manor on the banks
of the River Real; servants and carriages and
riches detailed by the retainers and the help
of employ. But, alas, not ideal - my property
and life were sealed long, long ago, and this
is not to be. All I have are these tiny crumbs
in all the pocket of my memory.