God's Pockets
god's pockets
are they smartly tailored in Saville row
individually measured by a dickens man
climbing up and down a ladder to reach the jacket
bows, tugs his greyed fore lock and always
scurries like a mouse on his route
never a uniform not my god
no spit and polish yes sir no sir
perhaps overhauls with a pencil
pen a level or two just to make us straight
a poets shirt with well worn cuffs
or professor-like in a tatty maroon cardi
with a moth hole here and there
god wouldn't begrudge a moth a bite to eat
pockets are full of reminders, quite forgotten
ticket stubs, dust, bits of chalk and thee.
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