My morning coat has pockets
stuffed with wonders and what ifs
I thrust my hands into them
and blindly tell them over in my mind.
There are roads still to be followed,
like a tangled skein of string,
words to say, and turns to take,
and faces waiting to be given names.
There are cherished outcome wrappers
like disappointment bookmarks
that rustle when I touch them,
empty, yet still vying for attention.
There are keys that jingle snippets
of songs I don’t remember,
existing as a promise
of opening that special door one day.
There are folded bits of paper,
numbered patterns on their wings,
like butterflies at rest, they
wait for my decipherment to fly.
I could empty all my pockets
throw the contents on the bed
but the magic might escape and
I rather have the wonder than the truth.