Clerks III and a Stranger's Pocket

The coat smelled like old books and someone else's luck,

a faint, lingering smoke, then I was stuck.

My fingers, digging deep in the inner seam,

found it there, a crumpled, forgotten dream.

'Clerks III,' the ticket said, glossy and slick,

7:30 PM, two weeks ago, a quick

punch to the gut. The smell of popcorn, stale and sweet,

still clinging there, a ghost on the street.

Some stranger's night out, a darkened room,

a quiet laugh, escaping the gloom.

And now it was mine, this little rectangle of proof,

of a life lived elsewhere, under a different roof.

I smoothed it flat, then crumpled it back up tight.

Left it there, in the pocket, out of sight.

Like I was saving it for them, some second chance.

Or just keeping their small, movie-going trance.