annealed

i was fired for the first time

on poem-in-your-pocket day;

 

or rather, let go—dropped, free-falling.

perhaps fired is better: lit up, burned,

 

refined. there is no paper in my

pocket, but there is always a poem;

 

and even on this day, i am

going to write myself out of

 

my misery-worry and ride that

sudden drop of uncertainty,

 

that guttural buzz of

—anything can happen next—

 

and it will. and it always does.

next year at this time, on poem-in-

 

your-pocket day, i’ll be in a brand

new place, filling up my brimming

 

pockets with brand new

words, words, words.

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