Into My Pocket You Go

You stand in front of a shop of butter and spices,

your head tilted as the wind brushes through your hair.

Tattered boxes filled with beans align in the background,

nothing more than specks of grain to the curves of your face.

And in your coat sewn with six strong buttons,

your smile is permanent and your eyes always drying.

This photo of you I will keep;

for as long as the beans can last in their tattered boxes

and the wind can hold up the waves in your hair.