The jacket doesn't
fit me anymore.
Well,
let me rephrase…
It still fits over my shoulders,
curls around my arms, slides on
like a second skin.
But that second skin, I fear
I've outgrown it; looking in
the mirror, the skin is pinched.
I sent it away years ago, a skin
in need of repair, and in its absence
I found other skins.
And so they fit, and now that it's
come back, I fear as I slide it on
that it fits differently now.
I look at my history in jackets, leather
holding me together, keeping me strong.
Can you betray an inanimate object?
Because it sure feels like it.
