Pocket Full of Secrets

I’ve got a feeling he wears his secrets around with him
In the pockets of that old jean jacket he’s so fond of wearing.
He doesn’t remember they’re always there,
But neither does he take that jacket off.
I want to seem too polite to ask outright,
And if I got close enough to find out, it’d be too late –
He’d have me figured out, too.

It’s fortune cookie wishes that sustain me,
And candles I can keep burning in my place.
I’ve saved up enough sick days and favors
That I can get out of here, and feel no guilt.
I’ve got work to do.

I’m bleary-eyed and weary-smiled,
But I have a story to write.
I’ll write it with broken binding and a creased spine,
So that every other page is dog-eared, and coffee-stained,
And rain-wrinkled.

I’ll write it to become one of his secrets.
And I’ll slip it into one of those pockets –
The one with the torn corner --
And when he tries to find himself,
That’s where I’ll be.
Buried so deeply in his psyche that he’ll never know what hit him.