Sonnet for Brown Suit
Don’t grow attached to a brown suit
pre-loved and prone to tear
stitch by stitch, your shared disrepair
contained between hat and boot.
Its gait and gestures are your own
though it moves like an automaton
through church, graveyard and garden.
Yawning, long having flown
in spirit with sparrow and swift
it feels for a speech or for keys
bunched at the elbows and knees.
It forgot the party, the gift.
The cut is becoming, becoming
your very edge, my mannequin
turned windyman, brown pin-
stripes for a skeleton. Opening
up, you lose it, and the brown
loosed balloon paints the town.