Pockets

I turn out my pockets, wanting that he sees
Many of the oddities that comprise me.
The floral-print lined ones I think that he knows
Represent my girliness, the things not on show.
The bright smiling-faced ones that cause him to grin
Show me on my best days and joy that’s within.
I don’t mind showing those that need stitching and patching,
Knowing that to darn them’s his only reaction.
The ones that are to my eyes not worth being saved
He pries from my fingers and with needle, engraves.
The ones that ...