Page 119
Putting a Coat On
The way it falls from the rack
and the way I pick it up
are how the trouble begins.
I should be able to find the hood,
but in the dark room, it blends in with the rest of the coat
like a white flag in a vat of glue
or a black flag in a vat of molasses
or a blue flag with a white stripe in a scummy pool.
As it is, my coat is green and wool.
Usually, wool’s more formal
than cotton unless flannel’s in play,
when wool becomes bombastically formal,
as pompous as a flat note echoing
from a tuba falling
right after it’s blown.
I don’t feel pompous,
merely foolish as I place one hand
through an arm but can’t find the opening
for my other hand. Stitches crisscross
around the armholes like coordinates
to an obtuse map. And as for my other hand,
it is indisposed, unable to help me hold up the rest
of the coat, as lost in the terrain as anyone else,
as incapable of helping me right now
as everyone else who’s gone this morning.