Pockets Change

The shame disposal across the hall was
warped, a blue cellophane bag mouthing

its mouth, a detritus kiss and me with
long-johns cut short!

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, if only I

hadn’t hoped! But if’s, only’s,

they’re a mounting! They won’t
contract, compact as they hope/look to be.

Maybe a tomorrow will be more op-
portune, maybe a yesterday was

just a fluke. And the Balebusta?

Daguerreotype of liver spotted leather
(dropping honey-cookies), a hollering

down her footstool’s perch as the bus
comes this morning?

Abetting, imbibing, bad at both:
A blue, a cold and coolish cloud-light;

What an inconceivable

year embedded in this headache—an old
beginning, and them—my pockets,

ink-dotted and avuncularly unclean.