The problem with pockets you’d see
if living at my house with me.
When leaving the room,
quickly causing my doom;
and the tear you could easily see.
They caught on door handles (past tense).
In recent years I have learned sense.
To be knocked on the floor,
as I’m leaving the door;
The embarrassment’s very immense.
My dignity’s under repair,
since the days of my pocket’s despair.
Sketchy, on a good day
ignominy at bay
“no more pockets” I simply declare.
So pocketless I must go on.
Where to put my Kleenex and crayon?
That is what capes are for.
Don’t catch *that* on the door!
I’ll put stuff in my purse, thereupon.