You cannot understand
This leather jacket
And me.
I don’t care
If you want
Or don’t want to
Try.
I can’t even ride a bicycle.
This jacket, embroidered heavily in orange on the back, on the silver pin on the lapel
Says “Harley Davidson.”
This jacket is ancient.
The guy who wore it
Has got to be
Dead.
No one
No matter how desperate for drugs or drink
Would sell this beautiful, wonderful thing.
It squeaks quietly when I move, muted.
It is softer than any human’s skin.
It sleeps on me, so lightly
Like a lover, like a tiny coddled baby, like my own pre-birth placenta, like God.
It has gray veins
In its darkness.
Its zippers have been repaired.
Someone cared about
This thing.
It was
Him.
The man at the shop saw it on me
And knew, just as much as I did
That it was mine now.
He sold it to me
For nothing
Almost, I swear.
He smiled and told me to wear it in good health.
I don’t know who he was,
Who wore this skin.
He might have been insane.
He might have been bad
Or good
Or just
Trying
Just
Like
I‘m trying
Right now
Not to
Cry.
He might have had AIDS
Or killed himself with
Heroin or
Jack Daniels.
I’m taking over for him.
I’ll do the living now.
I will work this part.
The jacket will take the weather that still is falling.
If, when I step out of my goddamn pretty Prius,
A fucking “real” biker wants to look at me
EVER
With disdain, with a sneer,
As if I am a poseur,
As if I do not wear this shit with the utmost honesty,
That asshole
Can go directly
To fucking
Hell.
by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -
www.cokescroaks.com
