My Sleeve

I removed my heart from my sleeve and tucked it tenderly back into my pocket,
where it feels more at home,
away from our what ifs, perhaps, one days and could be's.

My pocket concerns itself with reality of what is, what was, disects possibility.

My heart, next to a piece of lint it sits,
and waits and watches from this view,
attempting to discern a clearer image of you.

It takes notes on that ticket - left behind from our last trip to the movies to see... Lawrence of Arabia...

It taps with its little red foot,
peeks through the button hole on my shirt,
searching for a sign that might read,
"Safe passage this way, back out onto the sleeve."

But now it cuddles close to a crumb of common sense, and they chat as they dine on the dime that you lent me, for an after-dinner mint, I didn't buy.

And I toss in the change that you gave me,
to call with after "our last talk",
but the extra twenty-five cents only shakes things up, for my heart and my crumb of common sense.

So the quarter joins the judging party,
and the three there in my pocket wait with me to see, just how far my sleeve is really out of reach.