Inventory

This is my cap, this is my overcoat, here is my shave kit in its linen pouch. Some field rations: my dish, my tumbler, here in the tin-plate I’ve scratched my name. Scratched it here with this precious nail I keep concealed from coveting eyes. In the bread bag I have a pair of wool socks and a few things that I discuss with no one, and these form a pillow for my head at night. Some cardboard lies between me and the ground. The pencil’s the thing I love the most: By day it writes verses I make up at night. This is my notebook, this my rain gear, this is my towel, this is my twine.