Pocket

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.