I paw through the table of give away
coats. One cloth number tempts me
to smile. insisting as it does on polished
pews and woolen pedigrees. I’m trying
to reject fur, a.k.a. dead animal skins,
but already in October, it’s getting colder.
I end up taking a sable—Big and bulky,
it smells of camphor and sweat, and promises
agony before it’s over, but will keep me warm
in my cardboard box under the overpass.
— Lyn Coffin
The Coat
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