The Wallet

Oxblood, bifold, kept 
In a back bedroom
Closet all these years,

It dates to my time 
Of adolescence, 
And has the same near 

Emptiness, the same 
Lightness in the hand,
As those eclectic

Years do in my mind.
Still inside the box
(A gift, probably),

It appears never
To have lost the shape
That it was made in,

Never to have been
Broken in beyond
That first unfolding.

Deciding it’s mine,
Maybe the one thing,
Of all the jumbled

Things left behind here,
Still of some use, I
Take it down, empty

Out my overstuffed,
Ten-year-old trifold,
And begin the quick,

Unexpectedly
Mood-changing transfer,
Like a New Year’s kiss,

Of all its contents, 
Leaving out as much

As I can bear to.

I like the way it
Feels on my person,
Or, more precisely,

How it doesn’t feel—
Cramped, inflexible,
Full of so many

Unused bits that it’s
Constantly trying
To undo itself

In the dark—and how
Everything it holds
Flips open and shut

Softly, with a light
Flapping of its one
Leather wing, and fits

Easily inside
Any old pocket:
So pleasant a weight,

And of such softness,
That you feel it might
Simply slip away,

That you could lose it,
Having forgotten
It was ever there.