There is always the sweet you didn’t like,
covered in tissuey down.
A back door key from another house,
the button that let you down.
A Kirby pin that lost its grip.
The quietly perished elastic band,
a mobile number (God knows who)
and at least a thimble full of sand.
The once favoured lighter, flintless fool.
A screw of ebullient fluff,
the receipt for shoes you could not wear,
and other long lost pocketry stuff.
Rummage deep in a human pouch,
to seek that illicit, smoke
finding the find that wouldn’t be found
and the things that lived in last year’s coat..