I bought a jacket last fall, fall of twenty-twenty.

Canvas, waxed, briar-proof. Tough? As nails.

In it I am Lancelot, Superman—I scoff

At barbwire, thorny multiflora rose

Wilts before me; and yet,—Clark Kent

Resides within, the ever-gentle gentleman.

I am the urchin, the armadillo, the soft

Underbelly shielded, but only so far.

In truth, I may don the armor

But I am no knight errant, I seek

Nothing of the kind—the battle,

The victory, the glory—no, and no, and no.

Yet again, I cannot deny that the jacket

Is well-worn, it is scarred, it has done battle,

It has served a purpose, because

There are times when we must do battle.