made small, a wallet-sized prize.
One might keep me in their pocket,
a used toothpick, cracked and bent,
poking at flesh through fabric.
The person I stab didn't even hear me cry.
Off he went to perform another miraculous
smashing. This is the part of the poem
where I might guess his mean motives.
Instead, I maneuver the tip of my head
into the light, notice almond trees in full leaf--
and they glint--new green everywhere.