I carry it with me
where ever I go
not knowing when
I might need it next.
I carry it in my pocket
like a key
I have one for almost every occasion.
For when I order my IPA,
when I speak with my mother on Sundays,
and when I curse the neighbor next door.
And it is with me even now,
as I rest my bum on this park bench
convinced the world coheres because of me.
Because the pigeons at my feet
are like predicates eating bread crumbs
straight from my trembling hands.