I found your yellow ticket in my pocket
the other day, and I thought should let
you know my jacket is holding up well.
It gets cold where I am and this tweed
keeps me as warm as the Scottish sheep
from whose wool the fabric was woven.
It has elbow patches now—in case you were
wondering—and my breast pocket always
wafts the lingering scent of pipe tobacco.
Sometimes I think of how your precise
eyes followed each of these seams, to
keep its wearer from catching a draft,
or how your hands might have run along
these folds, lapels, and sleeves to make
sure the weave ran smooth and straight.
I'm wearing a light blue shirt with it today:
is that okay? Do inspectors ever wonder
what shirts or men might fill these coats?
I imagine you are a man with round glasses and
a trimmed moustache who ends each of his days
judging jackets with some well-aged Bourbon.
But there are other times, when I imagine you're
a stunning woman, whose attentive eyes could
lovingly gather up all the loose threads of my life
and would weave them into something beautiful . . .
If the latter is the case, let's go on a long evening
stroll down by the water—and don't worry—
if it gets cold, I have a jacket you can borrow.
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