Lint

My teenage son gestures
towards his jacket, asks me how to clean
out pockets and I realize
he’s never had to turn
anything completely inside-out before,
never had to take something that was designed
to serve a good and useful purpose
and pull at it, tug until it’s wholly reversed
from its original fashioning so that every lost
oddment, every needless irritant is set loose
and finally it’s empty. It’s not a pocket
anymore; it can’t hold anything
but the buzzing light from the kitchen
and these softly flanneled regrets.