Suede, Jacket. Bomber Jacket.

A jacket destined for the one-time wear,

buried with closet dust, an impulse buy, up for re-sale.

'Don't you dare.'

All forgotten during air fryer breezes

and those cursed with sprinkler sneezes.

'Hold the hell up.'

One of many tortured mistakes

and one or two for occasional wakes

but then I found it.

Minus one for that shade of brown

but belay the solemn nitpicks

for the grace in which it fits.

'Bout time.'

The weight changes don't matter,

it can adjust to the unpredictable Mad Hatter

of Spend with quilted stitch work beyond fear.

In checking inside pockets, it became clear,

this be no suede capsule of so-so

upper body warmth and a low blow

to my savings account; it's me.

'There it is.'

Not a replica of gods rebellious kids,

no tribute to furious skids

across three Milky Ways.

Self-labored sharp days.

'You got the look!' (weather permitting.)