Deep Pockets
His affable vernacular
invariably bucks me up.
A bowl of tortellini soup
after trudging heavy miles
through long snow in Canada.
A pair of running shoes
that fit like best friendship
with its vigintillion private jokes.
A friendship as easily worn
as supple running shoes.
Cardigan with a hole or two.
Missing button. Deep pockets.
Poetry by A Bard with No Name
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Written on 2025-11-27 at 10:05