In a chest at the bottom of my closet,
Lies a coat of colorful fabric.
The smell of exhaust and gasoline,
A smell of pure heaven, though wretched and vile,
Fills me with a sense of joy and freedom.
Each stitch holds a memory, each thread a story,
of blistering cold, and ice covered lakes at 90 miles per hour.
Ah, these are the things woven into the checkerboard pattern,
The orange and greens, the collar and sleeves.
I know when I put it on, how many more threads I’ll sew into it.
More adventures I’ll play through in my beautiful jacket.
I can already see them.
I can see the snow covering the sleeves,
The ice collected in the pockets.
I shiver from the cold, and smile.
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