Shirt Pocket Depth
by Odin Roark

He assumed everyone had one.
Some carried it visible,
Others…

He knew not its exactness
Or how he came across it.
He thought of it safely tucked in his shirt pocket,
Shielded now, like a question
Whose answer was yet to be revealed.

Patience never waning,
He bided his time.
Midnight movies,
24-7 coffee shops,
Dark pool halls,
Lonely bar stools,
Seemingly forever rain-drenched streets.

The question’s diligence unwavering,
Always reserved and quiet,
Yet unsettling like a shadowless dream,
Until…

One day it was gone.
For years the vacancy of nestled hope
Remained a loss unresolved.

More distances he traveled,
Through clouds of tenuous tears,
Gray-tinged sunsets,
And wishing wells spent dry.

Then…

While gazing out a train window,
His shirt pocket became restless,
Its semblance whispering,
“Why not here?”

Being so travel-worn,
He stepped from the transport
Onto a still platform,
Save for the quixotic image
Alone on a bench.

Stepping forward and sitting next to the vestige,
He smiled as the vaporous vision wound a pocket watch backwards,
Its face becoming transparently void of numbers.

Finally, air’s gentle stirring merged as one with his breathing.

The answer urged his glistening eyes. “It’s time, isn’t it?”