HOW I CAME TO OWN A FUR-LINED COAT THOUGH I LIVE IN CALIFORNIA AND BELONG TO THE SIERRA CLUB
In Filene’s Basement in Boston
I explore the aisles. So many bargains.
None I need. None that I can
justify carrying home.
Mild regret begets claustrophobia.
I scan shopper-clogged aisles
for a quick escape, duck into
a corner with room to breathe.
From there I clearly see
an exit route. Appeased, I pause.
Turn to gaze around. Evening jackets,
racks of beaded gowns
equal to a big night on the town.
A kid in Grandma’s attic, I reach out
and stroke a cream and honey colored coat.
Or shall I say the coat caresses me?
Its rabbit lining’s soft against my cheek.
Warm within its comforting embrace
I think of waltzing with Lothario.
And that is all I have to say. Except.
That’s the way temptation gets its way:
the innocent trying-on that’s just for fun;
a long appraising look in a flattering glass;
a smile, a pirouette, the crime is done.
—from Rattle #24, Winter 2005
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Yvonne Postelle: “Why do I write poetry? For the same reason a mockingbird sings or an infant plays with its fingers and toes. Because I love the rhythms of the human voice, the unexpected relationships that can sneak into a line binding words together in a pleasurable and memorable coupling. To learn what I believe. And, yes, because I can.” (website)
