Friday, February 14, 2014

Forgotten Pockets By Jasen Sousa

Forgotten Pockets


Puddles and other places 
I am seen throughout the day, stranger
to the world and to myself.  A portion 
of my being slowly evaporates underneath
Weeping Willows and AC’s that droop
out of 3rd floor windows.  I walk past a park
in the middle of July and watch
balls fly, there is no place that kids have to be.

Reminders of intruders 
who party on the balcony of my conscience.  
I carry a lot with me in different compartments,
but it is the items I have left inside of forgotten pockets
that I desire to reintroduce to my fingertips.  

Falling out of my dreams, parachutes 
containing incomplete goals imagined 
on dim-lit days.  My toes yearning to be comfortable 
inside damp, disfigured boots.  My previous success 
is an equation I can no longer compute.  

I walk swiftly past store windows to avoid eye 
contact with the man no longer intact, the man
in black, black backpack, black hat, swallowing
a black......gun.  Future memories blown out the back
landing in cracks where the sidewalk and street meet, until
a machine comes by and sweeps them away.

Roofers that quit and didn’t take the ladder down.  Good kid,
madder now, scowl, molded angry brow because there
are forces which will not allow the man I witness 

throughout the day to be present now.

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