Front jean pockets,
I have found, will
often be cluttered
with infinite secrets
of past, present, future.
We mainly carry these secrets  
near the hips and pelvis.
So as we walk,
hood forward
neck bent,
head down,
ruminating, pondering;
our hands can broodingly slip
into the soft concealment
made from denim and dye.
To worry at the mistakes
in solitude, out of eyesight.