That coat
on the door
isn’t mine, really.
I bought it at
a thrift store,
thought of it
as costume — long,
multi-hued tweedy woven
shapeless bag of a thing,
thought it’d pass for
turn of the century
or hipster, perhaps
artsy in a shambling,
mumbling poet way,
covering a similar and
hated body to that
it had once covered.
Coupled with any of a number
of equally secondhand hats,
I thought it might make me seem
a bit more legit, too odd
to be anything but credible
in the persona I’d chosen.
The coat, not bought new
but used, isn’t mine really:
another owned it once, wore it
all fall and winter most likely,
tried to wrap it tight against
revealing, spinning wind
that lifted his cover
and sealed me into mine.

Pleased with the tightness
and the resultant heat
of my fists, I shone hard
as a youth — could have had
my picture in the dictionary
next to “righteous,” my growl
remixed as a viral
undertone to public events;
deep into middle age now,
I open my hands
but no one’s rushing up
to clasp them.  This is,
I suppose, what I get
for dimming the fire within:
I may last longer
but will also feel colder —

I suppose I have to consider
that my life’s always been this cold
and that I never knew that
because of how long and hot
I’ve been burning;
still,
I’ll be damned
if I’ll start fighting again
just to get warm.