Like the stitches of an ancient overcoat
straining against the weight of years,
the rags of hand-me-down inheritance,
ill-fitting at the best of times, are threadbare,
relics of some long-forgotten afternoon
of half-remembered, once upon a time
adventurers who turned up, now and then,
like proverbial pennies, which none who stayed
would spend despite their abject poverty
of domesticity and duty to the myths
they wove around the prudent part of valour
to protect cheap fabric, cut more cautiously.
Their better fit would never be in doubt
but I have worn his old greatcoat near-out.
