Pockets

I’ve got one hand in my pocket

and the other one is playin’ a piano

—Alanis Morissette

I can never have enough pockets.

I’ve bought a dozen cargo pants

for the multifarious pockets

that they boast. No other kinds will do.

I need a pocket for my keys.

I need a pocket for my wallet.

I need a pocket for my covid mask

and ones for the notes I jot—

with a selection of ballpoint pens.

I realize I’ve embarrassed you

on dates—

your slacks without a ripple

while mine are hugely bulged,

sagging from added weight:

my plums and water bottle,

my phone and cigarettes,

the pair of Ralph Lauren—

hoping the lenses aren’t scratched

by the deodorant I carry just in case.

I bring a bar of Dove,

a folded towel with me

when we’re at the shopping mall—

their bathrooms are notorious

for their running-out-of-soap,

for their dryers on the fritz,

that hygiene’s more important

than my wearing some haute couture.

And I've ketchup when we need it—

the food court cutting costs,

too cheap to include

a packet with our fries.

I want pockets within my pockets—

ones that securely snug my

Fisherman’s Friend,

knowing I can’t afford

to drop them on the floor,

how germy that would be,

though I have some sanitizer with me

if it happens.

You tell me I should get

a better system,

like you with your nylon purse,

that women are a walking

pharmacy, have ten times more

to carry than us males,

have foregone the many

pockets since the Holocene began,

knowing one was a pain in the ass:

for the desert kangaroo

with precious lading,

the knackering baby within,

hopping along the outback

without a means to ease her burden.

Andreas Gripp

April 22, 2023

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