An Ode to Emptied Pockets

I pulled the lint from my pockets
and called you mine.
In the chance of there being nothing left,
I appoint you as heir to this misery.
Seeing that you had left the soil
to garden the city streets,
I will honor you
with floods of rain.
The river will raise your sunken grave,
and your urn will float
into the dreams of starving children.

©2013 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved