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.