Papa’s coat, his moons

It is mine, now
your coat with the plaid collar stained.
When I put it on, you sit down
on a ledge between neurons
legs dangling off a box you moved for me three
apartments ago, shielded by kneepads that never
stopped your knees hurting
Aha – you burst out laughing
you keep on getting it, the punchline
to the problem, the joke
and oh in another room of my haunted sparks, your lips
tremble over god knows what conspiracy
god knows what wound
and elsewhere,
you float
in the warm shallows of a voltaic stream
of my calcium, my magnesium, inventing zippers
that will never get stuck.
 
You buried plastic ladles in the yard and could get
anything into the basement, the moon itself, if it might prove useful
and you could get nothing out.
Not the lightest cardboard box, not a single one.
You would build a contraption to turn the world inside out
for just about anyone who needed it and you
 
always asked for too much in return. More
than could ever be given – proof
certain the answer would be no
 
          and I would have done anything
 
The moon in my head becomes full
as I walk the street, buried
in your coat below the full one
in the sky
 
          mine, now
 
this minute. When this moonlight
renders visible the faces
of my multitudes
watching you from the rafters.