Longcoat

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.