in my pockets, like stones
and pebbles and little round rocks
perfect for skipping across the water.
With each decision, I drop one,
forgotten in the dirt or the sea,
but without an answer,
they stay,
heavy and cumbersome,
weighing me down
and roughing up the lining
until something has to break
or I dump them in a pile
in the dusty corner,
hoping to forget they exist.
Some evenings,
all I can do is mend those pockets
and hope they'll be a little stronger,
strong enough to bear tomorrow's
collection of decisions
I cannot yet throw away.
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