Wool, I guess, sort of fuzzy, soft-scratchy,
jigjags of autumn purple, evergreen and gold,
lined in mud-brown satin, with lined pockets,
knobby leather buttons, a brief leather collar,
originally a gift, stuck in a closet, unwanted
for god knows how many seasons, then given
away to a wearer who loved it many seasons,
a life most of us, truth told, would die to have,
and yet it's gone now anyway, the silky pockets
having gone first, little holes then gaping ones,
and stupid buttons springing free repeatedly,
to be sewn back on, more and more clumsily,
then the lining itself hemorrhaging, hanging off
and getting worse, until removed, seeming
to cause the wool itself to wear and bald then,
as if it had been shielded from a poison in shirts,
but we know its wear had been progressing,
and was just reaching its natural conclusion,
the winter winds spilling straight through now,
but still loved, still worn, love itself becoming
worn by frigid breath, a sweater worn most
often underneath, we know where this is going,
buttons lost, replacements snipped from cuffs,
a strange coat, but cherished, and then cast off,
not enough of it left to even think about donation,
only the noble collar still intact, still handsome,
sends a shiver into us, still hanging here, awaiting
our own prospects to be worn, and then worn out,
part of us glad the strange old coat is gone,
a wearer now will look at us with fonder eyes,
and yet, I guess, it does seem right and meet...
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