The Pocket at the Edge of Maybe

The Pocket at the Edge of Maybe An original illustrated poetry collection for ages seven through twelve and family read-aloud. Maybe Pocket Poems 01 Eighteen poems about questions, responsibility, distance, apology, work, rest, and the strange objects that wait near an almost-open door.

Contents 1-5 1. The Pocket at the Edge of Maybe 2. The Moon's Lost Receipt 3. Nine Socks File a Complaint 4. The Monster Under the Bureau 5. A Door Named Almost Contents 6-9 6. The Cat Who Taxed the Sun 7. When My Shadow Took the Bus 8. The Spoon That Stirred Tuesday 9. Please Do Not Feed the Loomwheel

Contents 10-14 10. The Invisible Parade Permit 11. The Girl Who Lent Her Name to Thunder 12. The Comet in Detention 13. Ode to a Very Tired Star 14. The Night the Numbers Sneezed Contents 15-18 15. The Smallest Giant 16. My Eye Said I 17. The Last Crayon 18. Return Policy for Wishes

1. The Pocket at the Edge of Maybe I found a pocket in my coat that wasn’t there before. It held a stair, a folding chair, and half a rainy door. It held the hum behind a light, the squeak inside a shoe, a tiny town that rang a bell whenever someone knew. I reached for one more mystery. The pocket gripped my sleeve. “You’ve taken quite enough,” it said. “Put something back before you leave.” So I returned the bravest thing I’d hidden out of view: the question I was scared to ask. The pocket let it through.

2. The Moon’s Lost Receipt The moon came to the night desk with a crumpled silver slip. “I bought one ocean yesterday. It keeps attempting to drip.” The clerk checked every crater, every tide and shipping fee. “This says you bought a notion, ma’am.” The moon stared down at me. “That explains the waves,” she whispered. “I wondered why they think.” She folded up the receipt again and gave the sea a wink.

3. Nine Socks File a Complaint Nine socks stood outside my drawer. Not eight. Not ten. Nine. The striped one carried a clipboard. The wool one carried lint. The tiny one from baby days carried historical significance. Their complaint had one sentence: WE ARE TIRED OF BEING CALLED LOST WHEN YOU ARE THE ONE WHO MOVED US. I opened the drawer. They held a vote, elected the mitten, and moved me in.

4. The Monster Under the Bureau There is no monster under my bed. I checked. The monster works downtown now, under a bureau with six rubber stamps. It stamps MISSING on found things, LOUD on whispers, and LATE on clocks that arrived early. Yesterday it stamped my permission slip DRAGON. My teacher read it twice, opened the classroom window, and said, “Fine. But it sits in the back.”

5. A Door Named Almost Almost is a narrow door. It sticks in rainy weather. Behind it wait the paper wings we haven’t glued together, the song that knows its first three notes, the kite without a string, the apology still in my mouth, the bell I meant to ring. I used to think that Almost meant the thing would never start. Then I pushed once, and pushed once more, and brought along my heart. The door did not swing open. It opened just enough.

6. The Cat Who Taxed the Sun Marmalade sat on the windowsill and charged the sun one purr. “For warming this particular spot, you owe the heat to fur.” The sun paid every morning. The cat grew rich by noon. He bought three naps, a velvet box, and half a plate of moon. Then clouds arrived with paperwork. The bright account was done. Marmalade gave back the purr and loaned it to the sun.

7. When My Shadow Took the Bus My shadow took the Number Nine without me after school. It wanted somewhere darker, somewhere quiet, somewhere cool. It rode beneath the river to the final basement stop, where shadows trade old outlines at a little midnight shop. Mine came home much later, shaped exactly like a tree. I didn’t ask what happened. It didn’t ask of me. At breakfast we stood sideways while the branches crossed the wall. Some days a friend needs distance. Some days that’s all.

8. The Spoon That Stirred Tuesday I left a spoon in Tuesday. By Wednesday it had stirred the bells into the oatmeal and the pigeons into words. Thursday tasted sideways. Friday lost one shoe. Saturday grew bubbles that a calendar blew through. On Sunday I found the spoon again. It looked exhausted, frankly. I washed it in a quiet cup and thanked it very blankly. Monday came out normal. We did not trust it yet.

9. Please Do Not Feed the Loomwheel Please do not feed the Loomwheel crumbs, coins, or declarations. Do not offer it your homework, your brother, or your explanations. It eats only choices that circle back pretending they were made by someone else before the very ending. If it rolls beneath your window and asks, “Who made this mess?” Say the name that fits the action. Sometimes that name is yes. Sometimes that name is me.

10. The Invisible Parade Permit Our invisible parade was denied for being unseen. We appealed with silent trumpets and a float of ghostly green. The clerk said, “Where are marchers?” We said, “Directly over there.” He leaned across the counter. He inspected empty air. Then one invisible drummer dropped a very visible beat. The windows shook. The pencils jumped. The stamps marched down the street. Our permit still says PENDING. The parade began last week.

11. The Girl Who Lent Her Name to Thunder Nia lent her name to thunder for one wet afternoon. It rolled it over rooftops. It shouted at the moon. It cracked the name in three places and returned it after dark. Nia held the pieces and felt each silver mark. “You broke it,” she told thunder. “I used it,” thunder said. Nia mended every letter with a gold and violet thread. After that, when she said Nia, every window knew the sound. It was still her name - just larger, and more difficult to drown.

12. The Comet in Detention The comet drew a bright line through the middle of the test. “Show your work,” the teacher said. The comet pointed west. It had shown work above the roofs, across the pond and gym, through three surprised telescopes that tried to follow him. The teacher moved the desk outside. “Detention. Half past eight.” The comet sat behind the moon and learned, for once, to wait. At nine, it crossed the whole night clean. Everyone saw the answer.

13. Ode to a Very Tired Star Small star above the laundromat, your shift has lasted years. You’ve watched the socks go round and round. You’ve dried a thousand tears. Tonight the sign will cover you. The dryers have your post. Clock out behind the chimney. Let the moon pretend to boast. We’ll leave one chair on the roof and one cold cup of night. No one should have to shine forever just to prove they are a light.

14. The Night the Numbers Sneezed One sneezed first. Two caught it. Three yelled, “Numbers cannot sneeze!” Four handed out the tissues. Five blamed fractions. Six blamed bees. Seven stayed in bed all day. Eight lost both its rings. Nine called the Tribunal to count contagious things. Zero stood apart and said, “There’s nothing here to fear.” Then zero sneezed so mightily it started a new year.

15. The Smallest Giant The smallest giant in the world could fit behind a pea. He lifted dust. He pushed one hair. He wrestled cups of tea. The larger giants laughed at him. They stacked the hills for fun. Then one gold key fell through a crack too small for everyone. Our pocket giant climbed below, returned it without fuss, and opened up the only door that could have carried us.

16. My Eye Said I My eye said, “I saw everything.” My hand said, “Not the rain. You stayed beneath the awning while I fixed the kite again.” My ear said, “I heard everything.” My foot said, “Not the floor. You missed the tiny shaking when our friend walked through the door.” I stood before the mirror. No part could speak for all. So I said, “I will listen before I name what I recall.” The eye inside the mirror warmed. The doorway filled with hall.

17. The Last Crayon The last crayon in the box was neither red nor blue. Its wrapper read: THE COLOR OF WHAT YOU DECIDE TO DO. I drew a door. It stayed a door. I drew a ship. It sank. I drew myself admitting I had emptied someone’s bank - not money, only marbles, but they mattered just the same. The crayon turned apology-gold when I returned the game.

18. Return Policy for Wishes Wishes may be returned within nine nights if unused, unopened, and still attached to the original wanting. Wishes damaged by weather, sharing, or telling the truth cannot be restored to their former size. We do not refund wishes that turned into work. We do not exchange a brave wish for an easy one after the door has noticed you. If your wish arrived wrong, bring the receipt and the person you became while waiting. The clerk will look at both. The clerk may say: “This one is no longer a wish. Take it home. It has begun.”

At the Edge of Maybe If you found a pocket at the edge of maybe, what would you put back?

Carry One Which poem would you carry in your pocket? Return One Which object, question, or apology would you put back?

NorthStar Original Original manuscript, characters, visual propositions, and VORATH material system. Broad traditions of nonsense poetry, family read-aloud, object comedy, and surreal metaphor are used without copying another book's text, figures, typography, trade dress, or illustration language. Cover plus twenty-four two-page interior spreads: forty-eight interior pages total.