He wore the casual cardigan of his father,
pouting at the shoulders, it reminded him
that he had not reached the old man’s stature.

I could see it comforted;
Small hands in oversized woollen pockets
recounting nothing but the odour of nicotine,
a missing button,
a long-standing elbow patch-
unmatched- in battleship grey.

In it  he wore a new peace of mind.
There in the fire glow,
his own fragility seemed
to take on warrior status.
Together, were they overtly proud
of its days of small fame.
It had taken possession, and I could see,
It would remain his alone until the day he died
Or until some kind friend stole it away.