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.