The Jacket

The Jacket

By Kira A. Moore

100 9714

The shadows on the porch are cool,

pimples the skin.

Reminding me that  I need to break out the

jackets waiting in the hall closet.

Each of which will demand,

by means of dusty shoulders and rumpled back,

to be taken to the cleaners,

where sweating and cursing,

a boy will complain about the  stain on the sleeve

of my wife’s’ coat.

The one my mother bought her

for Christmas and that she insists is,

“The ugliest damn thing I’ve ever seen”.

I think of the only time she wore it,

the marinara sauce dripping,

unnoticed, from the bread stick clutched

in my mother’s hand as she turned to look for the

waitress who promised to,

“be back in a sec”, ten minutes ago.

The shake of my wife’s head

when I thought to give warning,

“Now I’ll have an excuse to not wear it”.

One thought on “The Jacket

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