A poem. About pockets.
Ah’m at thone age when a trip
tae Brentford Nylons
seems a guid idea.
No fur purple, brushed nylon sheets that sparked
when you and yer man gied it laldy;
No fur curtains,
wan tae pit up and wan tae chainge wi
when they others were getting waashed;
Ah’m at thone age when ah can see
the wisdom o’ ma ancestors,
the heritage o’ Glesga wummin the city ower
in generations past
That saw the point o’
That understood the need fur
A nylon overall.
No only wid yer claithes stay dry when waashin dishes
but ye hud a place
tae pit yer hanky
tae store yer keys
tae keep yer other glesses handy.
And ah’m at thone age when poakits seem a guid idea.
No fur oor mammies wis getting loaked oot an bribin yon wee toerag wi loctite acne
an a likin fur stuff that wisnay his tae climb up the verandahs an lift the kitchen windae tae let ye in.
Your mammy never stoatit aroon the hoose, shoutin fur glesses that wur perched oan her perm, the tiara fur the short-sightet.
And ah’d know where tae look
when rememberin’ those wummin
that came afore me
made me greet.
Cos ma hanky wid be in ma poakit.