Pockets Full of Heavy Emptiness

A poem.

Pockets Full of Heavy Emptiness

Pockets full of heavy emptiness;
Large coins spill, plinking upon the porcelain;
After a quarter century still uncomfortable
Squatting above this foreign land.

Rooms occupied by missing faces;
Calls to dinner full of hollow bass;
Daily routines of other’s comfort food,
And click-clacking complaints of rising prices.

Knotted-muscles pump thinning blood,
Watered-down by time and distance;
They told me to eat more red-bean porridge,
But I was raised on molasses and milk.

A weak tea leaf on the fifth pour,
Spent and floating just below the surface,
Sapped by the hot, humid, stifling air,
Dreaming of my temperate origins.

Viral infections, political and biological;
Empty, unpolluted skies, jets stand idle;
Sketched borders, once dotted-lines, solidify;
Am I on the wrong side?

Be well,

Monty

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