Pockets

Are generally over or around Erogenous zones, they seem to dive In the direction of those Dark places, and indeed It is their nature to be dark Themselves, keeping a kind Of thieves' kitchen for the things Sequestered from the world For long or little while, The keys, the handkerchiefs, The sad and vagrant little coins That are really only passing through. For all they locate close to lust, No pocket ever sees another; There is in fact a certain sadness To pockets, going in their lonesome ways And snuffling up their sifting storms Of dust, tobacco bits and lint. A pocket with a hole in it Drops out; from shame, is that, or pride? What is a pocket but a hole?