A coat

I wore your coat. You were away and it was so damn cold. And it was near holiday making it colder. My mind was filled with cinnamon, chubby turkeys and piles of cookies. I pictured carpet patterns beneath shoeless feet, and that lazy boys met ottomans (in a low-rider ease). Our breath held small bits of ice as we walked, it may have hurt to get too close. But I wouldn’t have cared. She borrowed the other coat. We only had to go a few blocks. And it made it easier. (I knew you wouldn’t mind). She turned to me and said, “This is the warmest coat I have ever put on. You must remember to thank him.” It was just a coat. And I felt warmer. I couldn’t wait to hand it back to you.
It’s spring. I have no coat. I don’t reckon I’ll need one for a while. There are two chubby turkeys but they’ll never see the inside of an oven. And maple seems to be the taste of choice these days (sometimes lemon). I don’t use your coat (now), but I see it top shelf nearly every morning (waiting). And every time I see it I remember that I forgot to tell you what she said. And that it wasn’t just a coat.

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