A bijou

found on the ground
and placed in the pocket:

A tightly closed,
geometric,
serotinous, and
silver-plated locket.

Rumored to open
only under heat or stress.

Placed in the pocket
to fidget and fondle.

a psychological talisman
a cognitive charm
a token of anticipation;

and for months it sat.

A year:
untapped,
uncracked
unopened,
but armed.

Occasionally rediscovered
by a pocketed hand
rolled over in fingers
to be clutched and clasped,

this locket

without hinges,
without chain,
without hasp.

And then one day
it was withdrawn
from the pocket
into the palm

and noticed
to be opened
(slightly)
on its own.

It had found its heat.
It had found its pressure.
It had opened with time
from external stressers,
and it was ready to release
its full potential.

But it was quickly re-pocketed.
It was pocketed to be pondered

in order to wonder
as palms grew sweaty,
the bijou had opened,
so why wasn’t I ready?

It had opened,
but I could see
that the picture
in the locket
did not resemble
me.

And while I thought
and failed to do,
impatience grew
in that distraught
and pocketed bijou.

That bijou,
that locket,
then found a hole
inside the pocket
and freed itself
from being confined
so that it could find
a place where that hold
would cease to block it.

And now it’s gone-
gone where to?
Somewhere growing
beyond being
a pondered
and pocketed
bijou.