If I should ever have to choose to be
a pocket or a coat, my answer is a pocket, plain.
Oh yes, to wrap the world in warm is fine,
to comfort children caught by snow or storm,
to zip and tuck unhappy souls on luckless roads, no doubt.
But still I think I wouldn’t choose to be a winter coat.
Why then, you ask, a pocket?
If I may catch the crumbs of something good and gone,
contain the angry fist, relax the anxious palm;
if I may hold a handkerchief where precious tears are pressed,
keep safe a favourite glove, or perhaps a letter felt and left;
if I may hold a secret till it’s ready to be spoke,
then a pocket plain and simple would I choose above a coat.