It is often the person behind the register who complements the sole patch   
on the front of my winter jacket, maybe just to fill the dead air  
while the machine reads my card, maybe just an eye catch  
on an otherwise regular Wednesday something new in view, a way  
to encourage me to take my time, most of us always in a rush to the next 
thing, me anxious not to hold up  the guy behind me, my jackets   

are all patched, bands and badges and artists,
little metal pop pins and enamel push backs  
buttons scattered like the sprinkles on a dessert topping
and between layers of embroidered swatches, it is a sweetness 
 
to treat myself to hand made merch  
from indie musicians, other pieces picked up at art markets, 
I am just a drop out girl scout  
who never got over the housewife 101 sash badge requirements  
spoiling that irritated inner child with the whole box
of Valentine’s stickers written out from me to myself, 
to decorate my wardrobe and adorn my body piece by piece  
with the love the moments and memories  
which have made me into this sentimental adult

occasionally, a thread is torn in a crowd 
a sacred scrap is lost to the floor of a circle pit 
sacrifices given at the altar of self expression 
which leave little shadows of discoloration, reminders  
of the layers life calluses which we often peel free from  
when that old glue dries up and cracks, 
I find there new real estate to sew my latest love over 
 
the leather lapel creased by smile lines and late nights laced in laughter, 
these jackets are all quilted quiet comforts asking every stranger in eyesight
to consider an embellished life like mine as nuanced as their own, how long  
is it appropriate to stare and get lost in the thought? 

The cashiers always say they like it, that specific patch  
that simply says, be kind. That familiar sentiment  
is as sweet as the classroom Valentine given by the other shy kid  
who saw something safe in me to connect with, 
both of us now giants in their parents clothes 
doing our best on cash or credit, 
human scouts still learning  the survival skills no troop taught us  

in exchange for any uniform or emblem we can find meaning in, 
stitching the receipts from the best of life’s transactions
to our shoulders to share with whoever’s box is a little light 
at the end of a shift, in kindness there is connection