Pocking Through Pockets

Poking Through Pockets

Poking through pockets
Without peek or pry,
But there’s laundry to do
And these clothes need strong lye!

My fellow works hard;
He gathers and gains,
Paints, saws, and fritters,
Sweats, smokes, and pains.

An artist, a craftsman,
Building boats and great ships.
A master woodworker
Carving grand instruments

For others to play,
For himself to strum
And with sing me the loveliest
Words as they come.

Unbeknownst to him
His clothes collect junk
And slobber up everything
Dust, sweat, and gunk,

Sawdust, grime, fish guts
Dog hair, blood, glue,
Oil, grease, man stuff,
Last night’s beef stew

So steal them, I must,
As he sleeps in the night
For elves to scrub clean
Till the wee morning light.

I must pick through his pockets,
Though not to intrude
But I smile so endeared
At what contents include..

Wonderful treasure
Inside I have found,
Any young boy of fifty
Might hoard as profound

Half pack of cigs,
(The manly-man kind)
An old stinky butt,
The trash didn’t find.

Receipt, marking pen,
Two dollars, a dime,
A black book of matches,
The end of a lime?

An orange guitar pick,
A wallet, some notes,
A crumpled white tissue,
Keys on a float,

But the tissue is not
A tissue at all
But a lovely white rose
Gently stuffed, thorns and all.