Finally down to serious discarding, I
go deep into the closet
and find everyone’s threadbare overcoat,
older than my memory of buying it.
In a pocket, a paper
with writing faded almost to illegibility.
Something once was noted,
and I’ve never been known to throw something important away.
I try on the coat.
It no longer fits.
Now I’m trapped within a hoary skin.
And I clutch
a memento that’s as yellowed and wrinkled
as a jaundiced old man.
It’s time to pitch this rag heap.
As for the paper, my very unfolding
tore it apart.