THE JACKET

 

With collar-up and fists dug deep like Dylan on Freewheelin’.

I could be James Dean or Robert Mitchum.

 

I could be a drifter with a string of wet-eyed women.

I could be somebody.

 

I wore it everywhere, except to church

— at that my mother drew the line.

 

One day she flung it in the wash and hung it

like a punishment killing. Bought a new one at the sales

 

when I was busy with exams; coffin-brown,

machine-washable, 100% Polyester waterproof.

 

I forced it on, zipped it like a body-bag,

met the eyes of girls and days of rain and disappointment.

 

In it I faced the question of myself.

In it I had nowhere to hide.

 

Frank Farrelly

(From The Waxed Lemon Issue 7)