The Man Who Wrote Letters To His Coat Pockets

Its color sat somewhere on the spectrum between brown and gray

(Such things being dependent on vagaries of the light,

And the perspective of the beholder)

And it served as a testament to the muted benefits of near adequacy,

Being too thin for the portentous winds of December,

And too warm for the capricious sunshine of May,

Its threadbare functionality emblematic of its owner,

Whose relationship with those around him

(Indeed mankind and his universe in general)

Vacillated between an affronted indifference

And an implacable if somewhat muted contempt,

His commerce with his fellow man,

Excepting that required to provide him

With the basics of sustenance and shelter,

Carried on in an epistolary fashion,

Through letters he wrote,

Sometimes to those he encountered on a daily basis,

More often to mankind and the unheeding cosmos in general,

Which were stuffed higgledy-piggledy into his coat pockets.

These missives were not humdrum laundry lists

Of long-suffered slights and injuries, be they petty or mortal,

But rather soaring and high-flown in nature and tone,

More kin of the sermon than the scolding,

Celebrations of life’s splendors great and small,

More often than not those he knew little or nothing of first-hand.

He’d no intention of sharing these dispatches with the world at large;

He’d simply empty his pockets once they full enough

To present an inconvenience,

And he’d laundered any number of them

On more than one occasion,

And when he’d passed behind this earthly veil,

All but unnoticed and unmourned,

His landlady had simply pulled out the contents of his coat pockets

And consigned them to the trash,

Believing the garment barely fit for charitable consignment

Even washed and given a goodly airing out,

Let alone burdened with the detritus of another man’s life.

 

 

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

like the beggar poet...poems in pocket, hands out reaching for sustenance in donations or whatever...
but some just look at him with disdain...
i guess as poets we are all beggars...begging for a morsel of a read...
really like this....
and really like your book of poetry---the Romeo Letters and other poems is a wicked good look into today's mankind reflected off of yesterday's mankind.
j.

[W.k.kortas]

There's a poem or several in the last line of that review, jacob (oh, and thank you for the kind review of the book.)

[Jimmy Yetts]

To any true writer, profoundly tragic; the type of tragedy which, unfortunately, hardly ranks as rare.
We can only hope that nothing is ever really lost--a poem, a kindness, a life.
Your meaningful and elegant narrative must be characterized as brilliant!

[h d e rushin]

after Caesar was assassinated, Virgil wrote his short poems (those attributed to him) the "Culex" and "Copa" on little bits of paper. i do it too, more as a behavioral response to need and frugality other than any design....My old car doesn't have a mid-compartment so i can never find a working pen or anything to write on. Yesterday i wrote a poem on the parking stub from the parking structure...Then the crazy attendant tore the thing in half.....Which is proof that madness is accumulative //// I still love your story telling....dana

[W.k.kortas]

Well, that's the lower tier of civil servants for you, hmmm?

[Ken Simm.]

I can see this man of letters in his cluttered study.
Wonderfully writ. There is a richness here that is Victorian purple and Regency red. It is a full banquet of literary goodies. It is just beyond brilliant. Unlike your subject I find myself lost for words.

[W.k.kortas]

While I wouldn't say this came out fully formed, as I've never had that happen to me, I had a fair idea where this one started, where it finished, and much of the scenery in-between reasonably well sussed out as well, so I think it wanders around very little, which serves nicely in this case. Your patronage, as always, does me honor, old friend.

[Delmar Cooper]

I know that guy, hell I'm intimate with him. And I know that coat is wadded up in a corner of one of my closets. Damn, I may be that coat... it would explain the intimacy without embarrassing nastiness. Naw, there was nastiness, had to be don't you think?

[W.k.kortas]

Always nastiness, Delmar--it ain't the human condition without it.