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"Est. 1973"
My jacket is emblematic.
It’s also quite unruly, though
Not so much in its early usage.
Time was, it would hang a tad forlorn
In the cupboard.
But time passed, and my jacket lost
Its way. “Easy”, it proclaims inside,
“Est. 1973”, though
“Authentic” speaks itself by virtue
Of sweaty Chinese stitching.
It seems a little haggard, now.
A little sagged, as if Atlas has been
Wearing it.
Wrist cuffs stained with commercial ink
Of lonely, lonely nightclub nights
And, and the growing smell
Of weed, tobacco
(I tried to make it quit to no avail),
Seemingly infused into the fur lining.
A jacket that has passed
Under
Many, many phosphorus glows,
And now is fading out of sight.
