The Jacket

Fingering the wrinkles

of your leather jacket

November wind

clinging to the skin

the cold zipper big

by a basket full of

sweet potatoes

in the bronze

reflection of the sun.

Inching down the front

clumsy at the belt

I search the pockets.

Brass keys flecked with

gold tobacco flakes

a parking ticket

folded on a kleenex.

Against the collar

soft bunches of your

unbrushed hair have hung.

I taste you when I touch

the wounded course

from knuckle bones to nipples.

And in the smoky

savour of the leaves,

beneath the thousand

shaking surfaces of yellow

I feel your arms

still strong in the sleeve.