Pockets

I go through people's pockets a lot.
No, I'm not as thief,
I just don't want to mess up the washer.

Mum said that dad's pockets
Contained one pound and eighty seven pence in loose change
When he dropped dead, his keys and a rather embarrassing keyring.
I wasn't there but I bet her face went bright scarlet
At the funeral directors, when she opened the envelope.

My teenage daughter's pockets are disgusting.

A crisp wrapper, some welded gum -
Or is it Blue Tack? Half a Polo mint
And a scrunched up document vaguely resembling a bus pass.

I have a beachcomber of a seven year old
And I wondered at the seaside,
How he was able to cram so much into his pockets.
Now I know, back home, as I sort through the washing pile.
Feathers, seashells and an awful lot of sand
Have escaped through a hole in his pocket
Into the lining of his coat,forming an indefinable lump near the hem.
But how can I be annoyed with this possible David Bellamy of the future?
Each pebble and piece of coloured glass,
Grown smooth by centuries of waves, is to him a precious treasure.

In my husband's pocket there's a well used hanky reeking of nicotine
Forget the washer and consign it to the bin.
I always hope for something incriminating,
Strange phone numbers perhaps, scrawled on an empty fag packet -
Anything to suggest that another woman might want him.

Even baby clothes have pockets.
Cute, little heart-shaped ones trimmed with Broiderie Anglaise.
Nothing goes in them of course - what would?

Grandma needs pockets more than anyone,
Or just thinks she does.She wears a voluminous apron
Which ties at the waist and passes her days
Painstakingly bending down,picking up bits of fluff,
Bag ties, paper clips and things that the rest of us throw away
She refuses to take the apron off so I can wash it.
We'll bury her in it. She looks absurd like some
Human kangaroo protecting its young.

There's a small hole, getting bigger in one of my pockets.
I've been meaning to mend it; no wonder I can never find any change.
I'm sure I kept my day ticket but as I attempt to go back into town
I present a Tesco till receipt to the bus driver instead.

 *

 If you enjoyed this poem please click on the link and leave a comment if you wish

http://www.helium.com/items/777402-pockets