Second Skin

The shoulders are wider than mine will ever be,

a box made of charcoal and hair.

I bought it for twenty and felt almost free

in the weight of the wool that I wear.

In the pocket I found a dry cleaning slip

for a man named Arthur or Art.

And a peppermint roll with a jagged-edged rip

that was tearing the paper apart.

When I reached for my keys, I felt the sharp bite

of a lining that’s blown at the seam.

The canvas is yellowed and staring and white,

like a bone in the middle of a dream.