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.