I know it isn’t just time
that gives every relic
the look of diminishment—
From the depths of the closet,
I shake out the brown folds
of your coat, try to smooth
the creased lapels. They are
broad, of a cut and style
favored either in the decade
you came of age, or the year
you started your first job.
How do the sleeves look almost
like they were measured
for a child? Houndstooth
and stripe, musk of mothballed
skins. What will be said
of the wardrobe I’ll also leave
behind? Big bones, an appetite
for more that jostled with
the appetite for less? But this
I know: to don the garment, one side
is slipped on first, and then the other.
In response to Via Negativa: Father to the man.