Pockets’ Change

The shame disposal
across, a blue
cellophane bag
mouthing its mouth,
a detritus kiss.

What to think
with the receipts
and such? With
the used-up napkins,
those notes
of unpoetic shapes…
with heavings.

If only I hadn’t looked; The
daguerreotype
of liver spotted
leather,
a hollering
down her
footstool’s
perch. My pockets—
ink-dotted and
so unclean.