Pockets Of History

There were spectacles, a gold pen, cocaine flask,
a watch hung dead on a delicate rope,
finely pressed green paper and
a yellowed slip of fine print
in the pockets of a grandfather’s grandfather’s pants
and the negative to a young woman’s face
her hair displaced by bits of jewelry and lace
her eyes were hollow rings of white
her round cheeks made a pretense of light
her mouth looked full, lips hiding teeth
and something raw and slick and sweet.

The story that puts her in this pocket
binds her unseen heart to mine
with a steel rod fit for railroad ties
laid on big white lies:

she was a secretary, unburdened by care.
You wouldn’t find her face in a locket, or a newspaper
but as a pocket: all did share,
in the company of these pocket men,
who gave new names to the great lakes.
She was there and held each one:
each layer of change, destruction and ownership,
building on waves of time,
like an infinite serial of nested parentheses,
their curves, like cheeks, bear another set on as this,
the eternal mathematical expression of our world.

Somehow at the very end of time,
on the other end of the equal sign,
our history is the number of blowjobs
on a tally sheet stuffed in the pocket of god.

Pockets Of History

Nicholas Bond

Brooklyn, United States

  • Artist
    Notes
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