Oversized jean jacket,
Light in wash,
Your sleeves graze my knuckles
And wrap me in confidence on loan:
A denim shield against the mass.
I don you in overly air-conditioned spaces,
Often while doing errands I abhor.
You envelop me in your excessive denim
And make me think I can conquer the outing.
For the moment, I am brave.
I throw you in my bag without thinking,
Then hang you on the hook behind my door—
Back on the pedestal where you belong.
I don’t wash you much,
But somehow you never hold a smell—
You’re above that sort of thing.
Your buttons, pure adornment—never utilized;
Instead, you fold like a bathrobe,
One suitable for public.
You hail from the People of the Free:
A mythical land of (perhaps) overpriced bohemian wear
For women still striving for something.
But for me, your worth isn’t measured in dollars—
It lives in the soft defiance
Of showing up anyway.
You’ll stay with me through every season—
Not for warmth,
But for company.
And maybe that’s the same thing.
