Epilogue - This Is Not A Leather Jacket - Poem by Jeff Hobbs
This contrite conundrum
is a leather jacket:
a tough, rough, solid
blackened by thoughts alone.
It is Sewen, they say, with care
using threads of convexed regret
and lined with egregious humility.
The beast from whose inanimate
carcass the hide
comes is oblate hope.
The tailor, I am told, was obtested trust.
(as the egg would say)
or a coriaceous protection from coquettish glory.
Can the shell be broken
as it falls off the wall?
And, if so,
what use has a broken egg?
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