I want a denim vest,
ripped at the sleeves,
grim patches and buttons.
So I searched through the thrift shops.
Everything was too large, or too tight,
or cut in a style thatt was not quite right.
In the isles were old ladies
who probably bought the clothes
donated by dead friends.
In a corner, marked off for books,
stood Ginsberg, bespectacled and urging,
"You are not a locomotive!"

But I chugged on by,
all steam and whistles,
neck a bristle with eerie misease
that Ginsberg is dead,
like the old ladies' friends,
and I can only find denim
with sleeves.