poem I wrote sitting across the table from you

if I had two nickels to rub together

I would rub them together

like a kid rubs sticks together

until friction made combustion

and they burned

a hole in my pocket

into which I would put my hand

and then my arm

and eventually my whole self––

I would fold myself

into the hole in my pocket and disappear

into the pocket of myself, or at least my pants

but before I did

like some ancient star

I’d grab your hand