Something in My Pocket Missing

Something in My Pocket Missing

Something in my pocket missing.
My wallet sits solid -- safer they say in the front pocket
A knife he gave me is also there, and some lint, of course.
But my pocket still feels so empty.

Our hearts are on the left – My left hand held him when he was small
Safely I held him on my left and hid treasures for him in my that pocket.
And he always left me with those treasures, left me with delight.
And my left my pocket so empty.

Tucked away in the corner of our room sits that old hat rack we got when we lived on Shinder Lane
Rusted from sitting in the snow the week you threw it out “for the last time.”
But the day before his birthday he claimed it for some project he had in mind.
And it clung to us when we moved though we wanted to leave things behind

I warned him of walking without looking in the morning
Of crossing dark streets at angles, counting on hearing anything coming
On seeing the halo of headlights, and speed enough to slip away if he needed
His picture has slipped from my wallet and my now my pocket aches.

I got him that damn music player for his birthday.
A thousand songs he insisted on hearing each and every one loudly
So loud I could hear the music from five feet away
Even stuffed in his pocket it wailed.

In the morning we found the player thirty feet from his still body, still playing
Still blasting out music, still blasting out sirens
Still booming and blasting and still echoing in my ears each morning I lie still weeping
For something in my pocket missing.