Old Coat

by Thomas D. Jones

I put on the coat from Salvation Army
as I shut the blinds in the kitchen window
and go out the door to the outside world.
The coat takes its shape from the pain
of alienation, poverty and lack of work,
attempts at careers and awkward affairs,
the shame of shoplifting from the store
or insulting my friends when we met for coffee
or when my older brother and I
fought each other four years apart.

What mother wrapped her children,
huddled person made the coat a blanket?
It speaks of journeys to the underworld,
the ferry taken to the other side,
the walks one took enveloped against the night,
the time spent hidden in trenches, digging ditches
to bury the fear of dead dreams.

When I come back and take off the coat,
spots of sunlight checker the fabric
as I open the blinds in the kitchen window.
Out of habit, I try to wipe them away,
try to remove the stains from multiple trips,
the peaks and valleys I take each day
with master scouts who point me
different directions to the cold mountain,
as the old coat absorbs the rain and snow.