Patches

It started when
the coat was almost new,
caught on rust-streaked spikes
of a school-ground prison…..
Patches!
Invisible at first,
an extra pocket
or designer label;
no one suspected
hidden damage.
But the scar remained,
quickly joined by
brothers, sisters,
uncles, cousins.
Then strangers
drove their opinions,
and other more physical
appendages,
through its crumpled fabric;
patches and coat
indistinguishable,
buttoned up tight
to keep everything out.
Razor drawn thighs
in clenched relief
as the dark-coated men
emerged from
the hidden recesses
of your tattered Psyche,
threatening with fingers
and twisted mouths
into huddled corners.
Terror patched
by white coats,
needles and
thought numbing pills.

But still the coat remains,
resisting the cold
of endless winter nights.
The patches have held,
and somehow sanity
of a kind has emerged
to convince those who
see beneath the fabric,
stitched and laddered
beyond any kind of
outlandish fashion,
that there is always
a way to foster hope.