The Pockets of My Little Boys

The pockets of my little boys
are full of surprises, lint, and toys,
mini-snails and balls of twine
cracker crumbs, crushed up so fine
little cars with little tires
chewed up old bits of wires
sand and rocks and dying grass
big sister's missing backstage pass
a leaking pen without its cap
(boy, I'd love to take a nap!)
mutilated bubble gum
a little vial of green pond scum
writhing, icky caterpillars
(that likely would have turned to millers)
dolly heads with tiny shoes—
no wonder Sally sings the blues—
bopping around with several nickels
bumpy, green half-eaten pickles
computer chips from daddy's box
candy-coated baby socks
and when I've seen all I can take
from one big pocket slithers a snake
and if you think that's oh so cute
in another I found a newt
once I was so bold to find
hardened concrete and an old grape vine.
And if your boy still plays with sockets
just you wait 'til he finds his pockets.