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Pockets Pockets When he was very young, to safeguard my washer I checked his overalls, for tissues, gum, crayons, dinosaurs and rockets-- pockets were a minor issue, until he turned sixteen. Lately, he confides little-- Seems like nearly nothing. I'm grateful for filled pockets. Dissension, ire or silence, if I inquire who, where, why. I hate to be a snoop but, wash day, while he sleeps, I slip into his room to grab garments nonchalantly strewn. I sort family laundry that sits in heaps, for loading. But first, a search for minor consolation. I'm grateful for filled pockets. Would I rummage through a daughter's purse? No, she'd tell her mother all. But a son… I absolve myself as I delve into the pockets of his dirty jeans. A burger receipt (that's why he couldn't eat), a movie stub-- is there a girl? When will he tell his mother? Is it a phase? I'm grateful for filled pockets. I never mention what I find-- not directly from his pocket to his ear, in fear that before his maturity and give and take of conversation are the norm, there is an outside chance, there is a possibility, that the thought might occur to him as unlikely as it seems, to empty his own pockets! |
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