Antecubital

Pocketbook

in the crook of my elbow

collects memories

like renzuru

conjoined against headwinds

tucked in the bend

There’s room for regrets

melancholy musings

all my origin stories

stacked up like displays

of rakes or greeting cards

This little pouch is new

and I hate how it looks

opaque

paper-thin

even while appreciating

its utility in sullen times