Michael Coy Poet Rhyme

A Philosopher Bids Farewell to His Coat

(In the opera "La Bohème", the four friends
need money for a medical emergency, so
each is selling-off something precious.)

Listen to me, old friend 
of sixteen years, and counting: 
it's you who must ascend 
- alone - the sacred mountain, 

while I stay on the plain. 
You know you have my thanks: 
whether we'll meet again, 
triumphant in the ranks 

of the righteous, I don't know. 
You never bent your back 
to any rich man, though 
we often felt the lack 

of life-sustaining sous. 
These pockets, gaping, worn, 
have borne their fill of booze 
when we caroused till dawn. 

Poets and thinking men 
found shelter from the storm 
in here. I don't know when 
you failed to keep me warm. 

Our hands abrade and age 
the very book they cherish: 
it's time to turn the page, 
for even love must perish. 

Farewell, you care-worn sleeves, 
buttons, I know by heart. 
And see, your master grieves, 
for now the teardrops start.

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