Hollow Pockets

by Jonathan Butcher

Another vintage jacket is peeled from
your closet, that defines your excuse
for occupying a room, whatever its size.

Only worn when holding court, explaining
the equations of all creativity, like an over
paid critic, slightly drunk on their own
bitter tastes.

The picture frames that hang like your
original 60's cravat, may as well
remain empty, as reflections from
your shoes denote the need for
carpet bombing your words.

And your vodka is laid by the wayside, no
fear of polluting the verbal targets that the
tinder sticks of your eyes went to so much
pain to ignite. 

The trails of your shirt follow your actions,
and get under our feet like false shadows;
ill fitting, as ever, but only in the wrong light.