Nothing But Lint in my Pocket

Nothing But Lint In My Pocket

There's nothing in my pocket?!
I pat the sides of my slacks
Nothing.
I pat once more,
Shoot my hands into both pockets
Frantic...
Nothing.
Nothing in my pocket but lint.
Lint and air.

And now also nervous words
They leave my mouth
Slink and sink along my body
looking for somewhere to hide.

They collect , of course, in my pocket
And all that's not there welcomes them
They do not even greet the lint before
rudely burrowing themselves behind it
Trying to create a fortress between them
And the room from which they escaped
Thinking they could not be heard
But they already have been.

Every ear heard their decent
Every face turned to face me
the moment they left my mouth
Those cowards
Leaving me alone here in the wake
of their disasterous reception

Every expression grows in shock
And my hands decide to try once more
For good measure
For a miracle
Digging my hands into my pockets
I accept my fate...
There's nothing in my pocket but lint
And the words of apology that will
Never be enough to undo what I've done.

I look around the room at faces
Expectant, still waiting...
But I leave them nothing but
the trail of words that fall out of my pocket

As I run.