Your Love In My Pocket

I’ve got your love in my pocket, ready

for when I get nervous at church,

unsure how to talk to good people.

When I was younger I kept it chained

’round my neck like a locket,

shiny and pretty good-looking.

Ask me, I dared you, sincerely,

bold in an ignorant way;

now I’m more wise and less happy

and I’ve got much less to say.

Pain helped me shut up and listen

and distrust the glistening things

and ignore the rambunctious laughter

and cherish the caged bird who sings.

Then I wore your love like a bracelet,

dangling, obstructing my actions, and

right in the middle of everything.

That made me stop and be patient

enough to be present in more things

but still threatened when in a crowd,

your love vulnerable to their thieving.

At some point my hands quit performing

and found themselves needing a cave,

a warm place to rest and be restless,

a hiding spot, sheltered and safe.

So I’ve got your love in my pocket,

ready to hold my hand tightly.

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