a yoke of hide

And as in uffish thought he stood, one guitar after another, electric excepting the black Ibanez given to me for Father’s Day when my daughter was a few months old. My leather jacket, London bought, with a yoke of hide and full body fringes reaching down each arm. Carmen, my car men and bars, the black leather enveloping my upper torso from fall to spring, my pockets becoming my purse, carrying everything I could need my weed, my lighter, my harp, my wallet and my pen.

David Cain, Song of Songs

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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