My peacoat eats.
Its pockets, worn with extra nostrils,
frayed and torn, in which to drop
so many things. A wooly plop
past satin strings to gutters dark
and snakes of lint, upon which never
light does glint.
And there begins
the mystery – Ahoy! What fun!
(if not for me) For when I place,
by accident, in pocket not
but hole there rent, well, c’est la vie
and au revoir I’ll likely see
said thing no more.
Where are those keys?
Have you my lunch?
My sunglasses … wait:
was that a crunch?
Up to the shoulder,
elbow stuck in the lining of this
wool stomach. How all these things
can somehow hide where, prior, nothing
was inside’s a marvel of physics;
an anomaly that continues to confound
and trouble me. If common sense
were give its head, I’d call a priest:
Last rites – coat’s dead!
But old peacoat,
you have my trust. To throw you out,
I couldn’t, thus, I’ll have you sewn
and retrieve, perhaps, my keys, sunglasses,
two fleece caps.
cae 2-13-13
