Blazer. Poem by Terry Collett

I often
wonder what
happened to
that blazer
my old man
bought for me.

For Sunday
best, he said.

It was black
with silver
looking cold
buttons down
the boys' side
as fashion
dictated.

My old man
would fold up
an ironed
cotton white
handkerchief
for the top
small outside
pocket space.

I once had
a coloured
photograph
of me and
the blazer
one Sunday
out some place
with me there
with a smile
on my face.

My old man
is dead now
but where that
black blazer
is now I've
no idea.

Maybe out
there somewhere
in a lost
different sphere.