I had a jacket once, a fine thing, warm
And soft. I never wore it. Instead, I
Tanned myself, became tough as hide. But I
Kept the thing, thinking someone might want it.
I asked my friend; she had no use for it.
I gave it to a lover, and she loved
It a while, but she moved somewhere warm. No
One will want this tattered worn thing, I thought.
So when someone at last asked for it, I
Clutched it to my leathery skin and said,
“I can’t, I mustn’t, what if I need it?”
But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. So I gave
It to someone shivering in the cold.
She was warm, grateful, wore it better still.