Poem: Triage Your Pockets
from a mis-read headline
By: Catherine McGuire
The portable dust-bunnies
need no help. Snuggle-lint nests in corners
of my flannel jacket; they feed
off the lining. Don’t worry.
The rain-dyed wooden clothespins
like hobos seeking shelter
are merely misdirected —
find them a new place to hang out.
The tissue in the left hip pocket —
a survivor, clinging in heavy surf,
is about to go down
for the third time. Crank the rescue winch —
get it out of there; up for air.
This folded letter — tucked in that impossible
coin pocket that no one takes seriously —
this folded, quartered letter…
be very careful. Like a suicide bomber
it might be showing up
to blast everything to hell.