The Pocket

Fingers dance on a ratty seam
In a tiny pocket of dreams
Same old handful of lint,
Discarded breath mint,
And a napkin that bears my print.

Reach deeper into these delights,
Poetic words I tried to write,
Passages lost into the sublime,
But captured in rhythm and rhyme
Decorated with rosemary and thyme.

Fingers danced on a ratty seam,
In a tiny pocket of unpublished dreams
A writer with no music can’t sing the blues
Two coins together, do not make a great muse,
When you’ve lost all there is to lose.