Patches
By Linda A. Copp

Patches on your shirt sleeve.
Patches on your tie.

Patches on your pockets
And pockets full of rye.

So, many slips of paper.
So, many scraps of cloth.

So, many parts of something,
Like mothballs and a moth.

Does it matter truly,
If the coat is new or old,

Or if it's brown, or black or white,
Or crimson, tarnished gold?

The patches on the pockets,
The pockets full of rye,
The years, the years or lack of them
Will come and go and why?

For where and what the difference -
patches are to mend.

And mending's just salvation,
Asking once again,
To be, to be, a bit more time
To have another go.

Yes, pockets hold our moral souls,
Patches mend them, sew!
Patched Up World

And who are we to tell the tale,
To label someone done?

Or to call him Hobo, Tramp,
When we're Hobos, every one!

For looking in the closet
At the coats that we've had on.

And the clothes that we're still wearing,
We're no different, save a song.

Patches on your shirt sleeve,
Failures, faults and tries.

Hobos, Tramps, just human
With all that that belies.

Pockets old or new or worn,
Or somewhere in between,

Coats and clothes in rainbow dress
On fat and fine and lean.

Patches on the outside,
As we try and try again.

So, before you turn those pockets out
Let's try patching them once again.