Classic Poem

My hands in pockets worn out at the seams,
And clad in a coat that was almost perfect, too,
I traveled, Muse, and I was true to you;
How splendid were the loves I found in dreams!

I had a large hole in my pants, my only pair.
Like Tom Thumb, dreamer lad, I formed by rhymes;
I stayed at the Sign of the Dipper several times.
My stars made a sound like silk in the high, night air.

I'd hear them on the highway when I stopped
Those good September evenings while dew dropped,
Cooling my head like wine poured in the dark;

When rhyming in those shadowed, eerie places,
Like lyre strings I'd pluck the elastic laces
Of my battered shoes, one foot against my heart.