children's stories

once upon a time
there lived a little man in my pocket
he spent his days
arranging the stuff that I keep in there

he wasn't big on conversations,
but silent was he not;

I could hear him jingling my keys
and scrunching my papers
as we walked the streets,
me carrying him, him keeping me company

during the flu season I felt sorry for him,
having to live among my dirty hankies,
but he didn't move so I assume
he was happy and cosy
-- and who wouldn't; my pockets were always warm inside

as time passed by, the sound he makes
gradually muffled in my ears
I got so used to it, you see
but every now and then he reminded me of his existence
as his knee or elbow bumped into my side
as I hopped down the stairs

he's the reason why
I always feel so calm
-- I just put my hand in my pocket,
carefully, trying not to shove him around,
and pat him on his tiny shoulder
with my index finger

that means Thank you
and if I hold my breath and still my heart
I can hear him answer
Thank you too

bah humbug?