This part of town isn’t so bad. Lies
I tell myself at night. Lies that live
Inside pockets. Lies that grip keys
And keychains between knuckles where no
Man can see. Lies that I reason through:
Myrtle Beach shell
Although I do worry about the
Golden wishbone slipping from between
My knuckles or the Tower missing
Its mark. All completely real chances,
Real possibilities half past nine.
And I do worry that I won’t be
Able to find the Tower amongst
The others in my brimming pocket:
Left of the drum, below the robot,
Two from the shell, beside my flowers.
Keychains weaponized. But only for
Tonight. Ten feet until locked car doors.