Lonely

Maybe it's like sadness
or grief --
nowhere to put it but in my pocket,
warm, until it flies again.

Maybe it's like emptiness --
nowhere to take it but here,
with a seat at the table,
until it's called out again,
to pilgrimage.

I carry it in my hands.
I say, I will set you free.

I take it out and let it go, but still
it's in my coat and on my chair,
an empty cup waits to be washed.