For Rainy Days

I’m loose change

at the bottom of your purse.

You keep me in a jar

above your bed or

behind your bedroom door,

only taking me out and

cashing me in

when I’m needed.

Or maybe you

forget about me

lying on the floor

of your passenger seat

as you drive out of town

or go out for a night

drinking with your friends.

I’m crumbs

at the bottom of the bag.

When you’re really hungry or

when you’re really high,

you turn the bag upside down,

ingesting all of me;

chewing me up into a pulp,

washing me down with

wine or

beer

or diet soda.

I’m your favorite movie.

You tell everyone about me.

You remember the lines

I spoke and you

repeat them,

never getting them quite right.

Or lying alone in your bed

on a night when you’re bored,

you take me out,

laughing at the right moments;

crying when it’s your turn.

I’m your old pair of shoes.

You tie me together

by my laces.

You leave me

on a clothesline or

in the corner of your closet.

We have too many

great memories;

too many miles

traveled together;

too many nights

soaked in alcohol and

dance-floor sweat.

You can’t just throw me away.

You need me here

to show people;

to tell them what we’ve seen.

I’m the love-letter

you got in high school.

You keep me in the box

on a shelf in your closet.

Maybe I’m under the bed.

When you feel ugly;

when you feel lonely or

upset, you go to your closet;

you kneel down,

lift up the apron

and reach blindly,

feeling for the place where I’m resting.

You crack open the top,

almost expecting the contents to glow

like the soul of Marcellus Wallice.

You cry when you read me,

whispering the words on

my pages so low, that you

can hardly hear them, yourself.

And you’re left there

wondering how someone

could have loved you so much

and how you ever could have let them go.