Inches

He said a man should have a proper weight,

something to keep him walking straight.

The wool is thick and smells of lime,

a relic from a better time.

But when I sit, the shoulders rise

up to my ears and hide my eyes.

I’m hunched and small, a turtle in a shell,

wearing a ghost and wearing it well.

The sleeves hang down past where my fingers end,

with too much fabric at the bend.

I look like a child playing at being a man,

following a very old, very broken plan.