Memory’s Pockets

My coat pockets are full of small nonsense

a receipt that’s faded to blank,

two coins from a country I don’t live in,

a gum wrapper folded into a tight square

like someone tried to make order.

﹁﹂

That’s how my memory works too.

Not albums, not neat timelines

more like rummaging

for the one moment that still shines

When you tilt it.

﹁﹂

I’ll be washing my hands

and suddenly I’m seven,

watching my dad fix the radio

with a butter knife

and pure stubborn faith.

﹁﹂

Or I’m twenty-two,

laughing on a curb at midnight

because the bus never came

And it felt romantic anyway.

(It wasn’t, but let me have it.)

﹁﹂

Some memories are pennies

warm, ordinary, easy to lose.

Some are sharp,

quarters with teeth,

leaving little circles on my skin.

﹁﹂

I keep reaching in,

pulling things out without asking,

holding them up to the light

Like, do you still matter?

Do I?

﹁﹂

And yes, I keep them

these loose coins of living,

these bright scraps

because even when I’m broke in spirit,

I can still jingle

With proof I was here.