Fighter Bomber Jacket
by Jamie Etheridge


A brown leather jacket
Hangs on the back of the chair
A bomber pilot disgraced
Sits in it drunk
Dropping loaded accusations
His nose in the air
Faded and worn by
Time and windshear
His tarnished reputation
Mirrors the leather's
Tired expanse
Both are out of fashion
One too conservative
One too mercenary
Neither comfortable with idleness
Or polite company
Scars like bullet wounds
Trail across their faces
Old and discarded
Life's ironic graces
Are all that keeps them from the graveyard
And the dustbin, respectively






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