Pocket weight

A stone. Not precious, just a rock

from some forgotten riverbed.

It sat in denim, felt the shock

of keys, the coins that clinked instead.

My thumb wore down its grit, its grain,

a smooth, cool weight against my thigh.

It rode the bus, through sun and rain,

a constant presence, passing by.

Now, found in dust, in a box's deep,

it still holds shape, but nothing more.

A simple promise it couldn't keep,

just stillness on a closet floor.