The Pocket Journey

The name came out of a hat,

Yet without resistance,

Assigned to an adopted child.

Strange how the boy found the name…

uncomfortable,

often imagining it

as a lost button in his pocket

but it wasn’t a button.

His later years,

getting lost in movie houses,

dank and dark barrooms,

smoky pool-halls

(usually along rain-soaked side streets,

inclement weather a frequent visitor

to the big city),

the lost button imaginings

remained a constant question

in one pocket or another.

Who am I, really?

Such a man continued his

quiet and unrecognized existence,

like a light always sequestered

behind a shadow.

Dreams increased,

nightmares followed.

Cold sweats

and dry mouth

became his constant companions.

Late night subway rides

to any and everywhere

brought little solace.

As years passed

And the button seemed to be getting smaller,

his identity hauntings increased,

along with his wandering

from job to job,

relationship to relationship

wife to wife,

children to children.

His wandering increased.

Then…

One innocuous rainy night,

ducking into a subway station,

he searched for a token

but the pockets were empty,

the token booth was closed.

Covertly,

he hopped the turnstile,

caught a train as the doors shut,

and settled into waiting

for a stop,

an identity for the train.

Nameless stations passed,

his express train with but one destination.

The end station platform…

empty.

The train rested.

He exited,

took a seat on a bench,

checked his pockets again,

but now each had a hole.

He felt naked.

Left

Right

No one

He never felt so alone.

He never breathed so easily.

He never stepped with such a jaunt.

He took the exit stairs three at a time.

He walked,

and walked,

his hands shoved securely

in his empty pockets,

his face enveloped with a smile of autonomy,

for he finally knew who he wasn’t,

his name but a moniker for other people to know him by.

He simply was.

He could own that.