The Optimist’s Bag
It slouches on the foyer table
tries to look invisible
but its innards jive
like a troop of spider monkeys
playing Twister in a pillow slip.
Like Pinocchio in the cavern of Monstruo’s belly
they holler, let us out!
Desire is the loudest.
It rattles the buckles from
deep within the leather folds.
Loneliness picks up the chorus
in call and response.
Next the twins, tenderness and hope—
smooth white hands soft as school girls’—
pick at the lock
while tongues of connection
slide over the gaping rim
and force it open
like a bellows pushing air
fanning the lilies of lust.
Your eyes track the play-by-play
like dreamtime pupils.
When you reach for it
the bag plays dead.
- Sandra Anfang