Sun Pockets

by John Reinhart

I keep a little sun in my pocket, a little

ball of warmth, a little light for days

stuck inside staring out the window

dripping with self-doubt and frustration

to burn a hole through the walls

melting shower curtains to run naked

into the fading rain, climb the red side

of a full rainbow stretching into black

holes waiting like a secret path

in Candyland where gumdrop forests

breed ruckuses of dragons flapping

wantonly among the moss under ancient

trees sprouted from starlight borrowed

from the stash Prometheus stole

from the sun, hidden in pockets

he sewed himself onto his socks

where no god would think to look

so that even chained at the mercy

of eagles one glance down to his feet

ignited fireworks in his heart