An overcoat, red shoes, red bag.
These are the clothes I talk to
in my kitchen on a different coast.
Sometimes the view into my garden
is dim, and I juggle the phone
listening to whatever time there is,
the past, the future.
Each lace leads on to a button,
a fly, a pipe tucked into a hole.
A dash of string alone will be seen,
flying from my head, off an ocean cliff.
Stop thinking about coming here
and tell me more about what you wear.
It’s hard to see into my garden
where the fence has been lovingly chewed,
so I write out a good-bye letter.
There is a collection of hats in a bin
in my garage that you should have
and the handle needs grease.
The fur coats have fleas.
Have you ever been out west with me,
counting the basements I laid?
I left a shirt in every one of them.
If I had them now, the pockets
would be filled with telephones
ringing the pants my friends really lost.
They made me do it, name all the clothes
that walked straight into your home.