My soul is a cold hard polished rock
that lives deep within my
hand-me-down coat pockets.
It is so old – the coat
not my soul – that
the lining is torn and
my soul sometimes gets lost
in the stuffing.
Once, a taxi splashed me with
icy liquid hate and I threw it –
my soul not the hate – at the driver.
I broke his window and ran,
but had to come back
to reclaim my soul.
I pawned my soul
once to pay for a date.
But I bought it back on payday,
paying a handsome fee
to get it out of hock.
It was worth it
because the date put out.
And anyway, I missed it –
my soul not the date –
because I had nothing to roll
around in my fingers when
I got nervous.
Later that night, we slept together –
my date and I, not my soul and I –
and left our selves sitting out
on the bedside table,
a pair of stones.
My cold hard polished rock
nuzzled his, as I nuzzled him.
god america i 