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.