Pockets

From the pair of socks —

every boy must some time succumb
to the need to run barefoot,
sink his toes in the mud and feel the grass
tickle his toes —

to the small toy gun, slightly chewed —

some lego hero, in his last throes,
squeezed off a last round before being eaten
by the alien invaders
come to enforce their new tyrannic rule —

there’s a map of the weekend in his pockets.

A stub of pencil,
number 2, Ticonderoga,
sharpened all the way down to the eraser,
no doubt in preparation for writing
the great novel to displace Harry and Percy
in the hearts of millions.

A rubber band, a flashlight, and a keyring,
part of elaborate plan lacking only dynamite
and a fishhook
and perhaps a few small bits of string
for the construction of the doomsday machine.

And a misshapen blob of beeswax,
a tribute to hours spent listening to theological proclamations
less interesting than candles.

Assorted other nicknacks,
a carabiner, a small canvas strap,
a bottle cap, a length of chain,
several scraps of paper and plastic,
paint a picture much more vivid
and active than he tells himself.

What did you do this weekend?

Nothin’.