One of four poems by Rutger Kopland on the death of his father

on the death of my father

iii his coat

The death of my father J had hardly

taken place when my mother A

carefully took down his raincoat

from the stand. Just try it on,

she said, he was so proud of it.

So there I stood and from

the sleeves and as I buttoned it

I felt how dead he was

and how far off my youth. Old

and frail I would become, in these

folds my skin would end up hanging

on my bones.