Wrist Deep

There is a small savings bank buried
between my heart and my spine.

It is deep and filled with joy unformidable.
I take from the little that is there very rarely,

though when I do it is simply warmth
that I emit. And as I stepped through

the threshold – dragged my hands across
the white walls, let my feet putter

lightly on the hardwood floor,
looked out the window to the J train

making its slow curve into Marcy St. station,
felt the pulse of the bridge traffic push

through the ground – I paused,
filled out the small (miniature almost, invisible maybe)

withdrawal slip, pressed it to my chest, sweaty, nearly dead
from lugging the dirty clothes, the little bits I’m made of –

digital cameras, laptops, too many books,
my toothbrush (so personal, the toothbrush) –

and took a bit out. I placed it in a small rinsed jelly jar
and sealed it, looked at it. So, when the sun lazily made

its way, drunk perhaps, to bed, I did not turn on the lights.
Instead, I carried around the jar, found my way

through this hallway or that lit by this crumbling
and quick diminished unformidable joy.