Pockets are such damned handy things,
Yes, if only for our hands.
Where so much potential each one brings,
And utility each demands.

When unsure quite what with hands to do.
There they are to help us out.
When a thing to put elsewhere, no clue,
With open mouth they'll helpful shout.

The friend of a summer dressed down day,
When free to unburdened roam.
And chattels of chill on the coat rack stay,
Hand and man bags left at home.

And they're a saviour on a winter's day
From cold and wind and frost.
To hide hands snug and warm away.
In their cavernous comfort lost.

To leave them empty seems a couture crime,
For their inclusion and design.
Is an oversight we often see,
Sartorial shortsightedness, a sign.

And though they at times get caught and torn,
Or their contents picked or lost.
The advantages to a pocket worn,
Outweigh such careless cost.

But pockets bring responsibility much,
Care with what they're populated.
This and that and those and such,
With what their hunger will be sated.

For when thrown onto the washing pile,
Be sure they're checked and content clear.
As pockets have a certain guile,
For hiding valuables we revere.

So reflect upon this day-worn drawer,
All it helpfully can contain.
And sing its praises I implore,
To be sure the pocket, clothes retain.