A shield of plain brown corduroy,
Just strung along the arm.
It insulates my weary heart
And cloaks me in its charm.
A vulture’s ruff of temperate gray
Adorns my neck, un-stiff.
It’s worn and limp and molting:
A fowl in the frith.
Sweet chestnut buttons line the front,
Each hanging by a thread.
They ought not close, and yet they sit
Like badges for the dead.
My pockets are unraveling.
The right one, then the left.
Just as things vanish into them
They fall back through the cleft.
Oh, jacket, sweet, I sing to you
In thanks. You serve me so.
You’re worn, and yet I love each thread
Of your Express logo.
So guard me now, oh jacket, proud!
Protect me like my wall.
With you on back, I brace the storm
Made ready for the fall.
To My Corduroy Jacket
