7865. IN ALL THE POCKET OF MY MEMORY

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.