Real leather—not cheap imitation
A metal frame—hinged—with clasp
Opening with a finger-flip
There’s the button-down pocket
“D’you wanna get a soda-pop?”
Those trips to town recalled
With warm sensations arising
From somewhere deep inside.
Out would come the leather treasure pocket
Never failed me.
I have it now—carry it with me
Just like he did—(He’s gone—cancer got him at 76)
Leather separating from metal
And grain nearly worn off in places