I had a choice a long time ago,
of what to do with all these pockets of alone,
hands buried deep,
on cold playground mornings,
finding it hard to connect,
with the absent-mindedness of youth,
spending more time swimming in my thoughts,
watching everyone avoid truth.
Nothing much has changed,
except my hands are no longer fists inside corduroy,
no longer sweating,
with lunch money in one hand,
and a bag of marbles in the other.
Now they breathe,
and make soothsayers,
and palm readers draw blank faces,
when they see that I can read them first,
and that my palms bare sorrows traces.
When they see I have learned the embraces,
of having grief and sorrow vie for my attention,
of having them both smother me,
with their tender graces.