Mint Tin

In your pocket, you carry a mint

tin, always. Each rattle

contains your life’s purpose.

I have something to offer, you hear

in the clang—to share a mint

with the stranger on the bus,

your garlic mouths

kissing human company.

Two tic-tacs form the line

from lonely to alone.

In your closet—the space between

the duffel bag and old yearbooks—

you keep the empty tins

stacked, according

to size and color,

the round ones in the front.

Someday, someone will find them

and know you.