The
Contents of My Pockets
The portals of
my mind
are too opaque
for window shoppers,
who stare at the
scum, jaded and blind,
with sand in their
eyes.
You must cup your
hands to the glass.
The contents of
my pockets
are only known
to me:
ticket stubs,
loose change,
and a set of unmarked
keys.
I left my lethargy
in my other pants.
The tunes I sing
when I'm alone
are between me
and my cat,
played on a phantom
gramophone.
Everyone knows
who I am
except me
and everybody
knows the road I travel
when I'm lost
in anxiety.
I've never understood
a road map,
I always read
between the lines.
(C) Copyright 1999
Nick
Kellaway
All Rights Reserved
