Here's a poem that's kind of fun.
I had a coat, I had a yellow coat,
and I wore it all the time.
Do you have clothes that are just you?
You know what I mean?
This yellow coat was me, this was my--you know?
And I tore my coat, and it really
haunted me because the way that I tore it was so bad.
It was a very jive way to tear your coat.
In that, I was in class.
And there was this fantastically beautiful young man
and he wanted to hold my coat.
And I got so shook up, really serious--I kid you not.
Then I put my hand in it all weird
and it split down the back.
So I understood that I believe in symbols, I
understood what this meant.
And I wrote a poem to my yellow coat,
and I talked about all the things that it was to me.
Today I mourn my coat, my old potato, my yellow mother,
my horse with buttons, my rind.
Today she split her skin like a snake refusing
to excuse my back for being big, for being cold,
for reaching toward other sleeves and arms.
She cracked like a whip and fell apart,
my terrible teacher to the end.
To hell with the arms you want, she hissed.
Be glad when you called for the arms you have.
I'll never do that again, you know.