Its leather seems like saddle bags across a wounded, limping horse. Black and greasy, notes in margins, underlines, exclamations everywhere. Photos of two charming children pasted on the jacket's mouth. Its poignant cue of course ignored. Our fingers fold the bottle's shape.
Beer caps strung like rosaries, except the string is missingness.
A legacy of lethargy where gravity of loss laments. When mother died and we were kids, chalky drafts of loneliness settled on piano keys. For men who dodge emotion's flood like roaches run from probing light, like people slam the creaking door on church groups pawning bible spreads, you made a reach that silky day in manners of a sleeping monarch stepping out of cold cocoons. My sister wore it down the aisle. Sleeves as tight as rubber gloves or leather sheaths that hold a knife.