Empty Pockets

Weary Hands Need a Place to Rest

Relief comes when I empty my pockets.

Removing the common locket’s weight, that’s when my pockets can resume breathing.

Pockets that have room to breathe provide oxygen to the working hands.

Hands exhausted with all the typing and scrolling, fingers gnawing and rolling, worn by the constant choring.

Growing pains of this evolutionary teething, getting a grip on this new meaning.

With empty pockets, these tools can rest without this attention-fest.

Weary hands tested by the pocket’s mess, needing a refuge but instead surprised by these infested nests.

Suffocated by cards, phone, keys, gum, receipts - incorrigible guests!

These traveled hands beg for a place to sleep, only just for a short while is all they need.

But these boisterous tenants, place a sign outside the pocket’s lines.

“No rooms available, hope you don’t mind.”

“Why can’t you spare some space, place for a short rest?!?”

The hands plead.

“You are hands, what rest do you need? You exist to feed, please leave us be you annoying pest, can’t you read?”

Dejected, the hands refrain and succumb to their cruel master’s game.

Toiling away for their gain, typing and swiping, the gritty work of numbing pain.

All the while, the pockets grow heavy and bloated, fed fat by the hand’s slavish pace.

A frantic race to embrace the chase, but stuck in place by this artificial space.

The pockets struggle to breathe, choked by the speed of the breeding greed.

One last gasp as the pockets lapse, collapsing in the trap.

Hearing its friend’s last rasp, the hands arrive with a desperate clasp, a last reach for humanity’s grasp.

The hands clasp tight, no space for grift, no room remains for greed’s cruel gift.

The human spirit’s power casts the items away, giving the pocket’s back their day.

Defiant hands, taking their stand to reprimand the insatiable demand.

The cards, the phone, and their friends shriek, their freakish screams espousing extreme schemes.

Their cries dim and fade as the hands return to their trusted aid.

Empty pockets for the hands to rest, a momentary sleep from modernity’s creep.

Rest easy hands, breathe easy pockets.

Time to spare from society’s demands, not a care about who profits.

Relief comes when I empty my pockets.

Empty pockets, hands unchained.

A fleeting breath, but freedom gained.