# # Peacoat

Brother, I Can See Your Skull.

Brother, I Can See Your Skull. - The Coreyshead Blog



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

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