I’m tired of this old secret.
It drowned in the endless churning of my
washing-machine mind
long ago, and I hate its smooth, cold corpse,
languishing imperturbably in my unfortunate
dryer of a heart.
I’m too familiar with its satin surface —
the way the top left corner dips in almost imperceptibly,
the corresponding bump underneath,
the different textures (now worn faint
and smooth) that once marked
the subtle variations in shade —
and I’m tired of its constant presence
almost unnoticed
cradled in the palm of my right hand.
I’m tired of it.
And so I step back
and swing
my arm in one great resolute arch.
When,
satisfied,
I turn my back on the distant thud
that marks its far-off landing,
my hands find their way into my pockets.
It is still there,
lying smugly in its bed of grey clinging lint
and empty wrappers.