There's no pockets in a shroud, she says - stop
Worrying what you ain't got.
Maybe she's right - a life lived
Is crisp seed heads of soft grasses
Hiding in denim folds, rose petals &
Cold shells & sparkling stones tumbling
Between fingers warmed by fleece pockets.
The folded note tucked deep that reads:
I love you, I'm sorry, I'll be home by six.
A candy wrapper scooped from his bedroom floor
Lost keys and a five dollar note
A dried mushroom and two tiny screws
The thrice folded mail forgotten
It's time for your breastscreen - we've send you two reminders
She shakes out her clothes, finds the number
Calls and makes the appointment at last -
There's no pockets in shrouds.