in POETRY

MARCY’S OVERCOAT

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It sits staring at me.
Sprawling, cozy and secure
in its own private space
on my cushy black leather couch.

I won’t dare touch it.
Marcy’s overcoat
tan and tailored
like Bogart, Sherlock Holmes or Columbo
well, maybe not Columbo.
They all wore one
every cloak and dagger
the British had to have them.
All that damn rain
and a good place to hide a gun
during a war.

This one is Marcy’s.
No wrinkles, no stains
only the scent of her exotic cologne
from a small shop in Paris
so one of a kind.

Strands of her long, shining blonde curls cling
beaming her surrendering smile
and squeaky siren laugh.
Her petite sexy body
is a firecracker in July
kindled to burn the passion
to the tips of your fingers
moving rapid fire through your body
and charring to the core.

Sadly, she won’t return for it.
She is like that, Marcy.
Always gets everything she wants.
A first time, good time, every time
graciously letting everything fall behind her
as if she had a royal consort on her heels
every minute of every day
picking up all of her discarded victories
then suddenly, as always
transformed to total failures.

Not me, though
but her overcoat, for sure.