Your presence with mine is autocratic,
Like I’m guilty and you’re a cop.
God forbid you check my pockets:
The thought that rings through my mind
As your eyes weigh down upon me.
Too distant from a fall word or my admission
To search me while I’m seated in my car,
My hand thinks to touch the contents in my pocket
As if to make sure it’s there and nowhere else,
But separated from you by only a pane of glass
That’s now lowered to leave nothing between us,
As I greet the follicles and pores on your face,
You might as well have both your hands
Up and fervent in my cavity,
So reach for the contents in my jeans I do not.