As I pack away small things in boxes at my mother’s house
I find fortunes hidden in every out of the way place–
foretellings of unexpected visitors, new beginnings,
the same old divinations as always. I used to carry them
in wallets, jean pockets, and purses,
like good luck charms warding off bad juju.
It’s odd, what you begin to hold onto
when all you need is a dash of hope.
So I’ll leave them strewn about for another time,
when I might need them again,
when a small kernel of possibility is all I need.
The Rummy Writer 