I could feel the seams on the insides of my pockets.
Each stitch along the bottom of my hopes and then
The sturdy little gap and hole at the bottom corner
Where I continually tell myself not to wander there
But the flaky tip of my index finger roams between
The broken ends of the seams and down into the hole.
A worm breaking from the soil during a rainstorm
Feeling the cold concrete of my legs as they bounce
Up hard and again into the coarse winds against
The warm pad of my tip further breaking loose
Yet holding in the change I was so ready to part