Holes In My Pockets

I’m scared to put my keys in my pockets,
‘cause I might lose’em.

But if I could get you to sew’em up then
I’ll be good, I’ll have trust again in my pockets.

I don’t want to put my peppermints in my pockets cause I
Might drop’em and my breath won’t be fresh when I see you.

I want it to be fresh so when I tell you “I miss you,”
You’ll remember how those words smell.

But I gotta get you to sew my shit up!
So my pockets won’t hiccup and give up that memory.

I don’t dare put my cell phone in my pocket
‘cause it my fall and break, then how the fuck am I going to talk to you?

Or make dinner arrangements with you,
or set a time for us to rendezvous on our sacred Sundays?
So we can pray (have conversation),

sing hymns(I woke up this mornin’ wit’ my mind...)

and say to God, as we lay, this is a reflection of him/her…

I refuse to put your heart in my pocket
because I want to hold it next to mine
so that there are no more illusions in rhyme—bear witness
these are the “shining times.”

Where devotion is illuminated, shade is eradicated
and the true needs of our relationship are no longer placated, but “sewn.”

We’ve grown and we need to sew these pockets,
so we can reap the gifts the cosmos has been waiting to give us---us alone.
No more holes. Let us sew.