a place for precious things

My grandfather 
pulls his hand 
out of his pocket-
quarters, 
nickels, 
50 cent pieces 
and a chicken bone
lay in his palm.

In my memory 
his arm could disappear
into his grey slacks
up to the elbow.

I imagine 
infinite space
in that pocket, 
money or magic 
could always
emerge.

When he entered rooms
he jingled 
and jangled.

When he walked,
his pockets
swung out sideways,
pendulous,
and 
dented doorframes.

When he sat down
it sounded like
sacks of treasure
crashed against
the wooden chair.

One time 
he pulled out
a pocket knife,
a roll of pennies,
a wrinkled cigarette butt,
a folded faded polaroid,
and a gold tooth.

He picked the tooth
from the miscellany
put it in his left pocket, 
the rest he poured 
back into
the right.

na później

'For later.'
He said.

He did this often.

Sometimes he would 
separate a mint,
another time
it was a matchbook.

'For later.'
Like an
enchantment.

And into the pocket
it disappeared
with my fascination,
every time.