Saint Julian Press
Jeffrey Davis – Poet
I’ve been collecting coats along the
streets for weeks in
case I’m caught naked this winter. Panic strikes me some
nights that I will awaken with nothing so I’m preparing.
Neighbors have surrendered their
raggedy London Fogs,
their vinyl yellow rain slickers, even an old fox skin coat
with holes at the seams from someone’s grandmother’s
attic. Coats pile the back bedroom and cover my backyard
bushes like provisions.
I will not be caught naked this winter.
Go ahead, you say, and try to armor
yourself with other
people’s sleeves, but there’s no getting ready for waking up
bewildered in the middle of the night in the middle of your
life in the middle of a downtown street with nothing, not
even your wits or your self, in your possession.
You could be walking down Lovers
Lane, your briefcase in
hand, your heart in the other, and an SUV military vehicle
could whip by and strip you of your suit, your title, your
spouse, your house. You could be hiking after dark in
Montana’s cryptic mountains, and lightning could strip you
of your boots, your roots, your backpack, your spine.
You could be stripped of everything at any moment.
So why wait, you say? Why not go
naked, now? Live with
the lyric and let me sing you into a lyrical life, your body a
lyre whose strings strum along the beats of my heart’s
Before I can respond, you strip me of
all words and steal
all my coats.
Jeffrey Davis © 2016
Saint Julian Press, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016930829