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.
My whole life is a work in progress. This includes everything
I do, have to keep working on and improving, fine tuning,
use some spit and polish. Needs some more strokes of
the paint brush to give it more color. Blue, green, red,
a brighter shade of pale. Mix it all up splash it on the canvas,
see if it's a closer hue to me. If I can't get it right it may not
be here tomorrow.
Slight of hand, puff of smoke, now you see it, now you
don't. Ala-ka-zam, abra-kadabra work some magic.
Smoke and mirrors make this all a fleeting illusion.
Rabbit in the hat, card up the sleeve, hidden
exit doors.
You see my friends it's my affliction of addiction kicking
in, there is no way to predict what will be in store
for us today or tomorrow, may be joy
or may be sorrow.
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