Sometimes you are a coat
too tight in the back.
I’m trying you on for certain weather;
hanging you up and wearing you out,
I take you on.
You are a cloak somedays
and I am mysterious,
hiding under your collar.
Or you are leather and I gleam.
Usually, you’re a warm wool itchiness:
shoulders stuffed, bent lapel.
Matchbooks slip through the holes in your pockets
and wander around the hem.
Your sleeves are too short
and show off my wrists.
Your buttons fell off.
My chest is cold holding you together,
and I can’t sew. Just take you on
and gleam mysterious in certain weather.
