Pulling out the crumpled pages
from my pockets
torn at the edges
some stained
lint and pennies share the space
litter
I call it.

Once well-written stories
ink-blotched
and faded

make their way to the bottom
of purses
in the corners of my car
gone through the wash.

I don’t want to save them
not an ounce wants to preserve.

I write tenderly
then with ferver

a life I can never quite explain.

I cannot explain the urge to keep them
the pennies in my pockets.