O Dead Man of Goodwill
Your coat smells of cinnamon
and your ties were all silk.
I am your shoulders and your
pockets are mine. I bought
also a scallop-edged green
goblet that may have been
in your mouth. At the store, I left
your felt gray hat, but still felt
your wife’s delicate ghost-hand
in this glove I found (my hands
are quite small) tucked into
which I wear in the 12 degree cold
to walk and hear the choir:
“Whoever are earth-born, together
rich and poor.” The candles
and chalice, the incense fails
to cover over the residual lives
I’ve put on and cannot shed,
old coat, your perfumes
and the seasons of our skin.
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Photo by Beau Considine /Flickr