A Dark Jacket

This is a curious poem and having a jacket made from that material is a strange premise.

                                A Dark Jacket

                           I have a dark jacket
                        made from the material
                                of a black hole.
                     The pockets are a constant
                              source of wonder.
                  Things put there never emerge
                or much later and much changed.
                           I must carry my keys
                     even while I mourn the loss
                  of such a faithful pocket comb.
                    On the subject of mourning,
                   I am well received at funerals
                   because, it seems, my jacket
                          is blacker than most.
                  It attracts dirt and even dirges
                    disappear over the horizon
                of any event, be they gay or sad.

                  I am a highly sought out guest
                             at all things gothic,
                      where darkness is desired.
                    I once tried a splash of color,
              sharply folded in the breast pocket,
                 but it vanished without a trace.
             Gallows humor and morbid laughter
                          are attracted to me
                   and follow me everywhere.