( some call ’em pockets )

pouches of air
where we keep our keys

in the land of jangles
as we plod along songs

almost tambourines
rhythm in our jeans

sewn on three sides
stitched up like a kipper

folded like space-time
a universe within – with

a scrumpled notebook
perhaps a snotty tissue

a fifty p piece
with the dead queen’s head

a leaky fountain pen
– polo mints for ponies

& friendly rocking horses
the ones that don’t bite

or our hands when nippy
( poor man’s gloves )

shudder on our way
charting parts unknown

in our tool cagoules
& our wanker anoraks

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