I quit picking my feet up
And crossing my fingers over rail road tracks
The day I lost a close friend at the age of 20
"Close friend"
Gives me that sick cliche feeling
Its guttural attempt to bottle what I had for her
Into those few words
To bottle anyone into words
Though I see now, that is what I do best

I work for mason jars
To portray personalities
Like shapeless liquid souls

I don't know why I quit;
Quit picking my feet up and crossing my fingers
Losing her was no matter of luck
But maybe it's the vulnerability of wishing
Of hoping
Having hope
The feeling I get with my own luck-trapping-routine

I cross the brassy tracks a few times a day
I see them in the distance and lift my feet a second before reaching their metal edge
Crossing my fingers just after I lift my legs from the seat beneath me
Holding my luck-trap until the last moment
It's a close call
I almost don't make it in time
I hold my breath in my chest
As the front wheels pass over before the back
Pitter-Pat
There it is,
Sitting in my chest: Myhope
My hope I was always so afraid of losing

Until that morning
Cool with wind and warm with early spring
Gray-blue-white clouds
With sunshine peeping through
It was January
Where years started clutching onto months

I still left for class that morning
The windows down
I could see my own reddened baby face in the side view mirror
As my room mate sat almost awkwardly beside me
No one would know what to say
It made me feel sorry I put her there
I slid my sun glasses down my nose
As we headed East
We crossed the railroad tracks
With the fields to my right
With the river and the morning sun
Still early enough for a thin shade of pink in that child like cotton candy sky
Almost suggesting a good day

Pitter-Pat
Brass beneath me
I hung my head
Deciding then
Hope was good as dead