Brown Suede Jacket Katy Callahan
Hanging from a miserable chair in the corner
of the kitchen where we once read Dickens and concocted vengeance,
your brown suede jacket begs for satisfaction.
You ran from it
like a lothario from his latest bottle-blonde conquest,
declaring it too beautiful, too Hollywood for the
Douchebag Laureate of Cape May.
Except it is November
and you had worn it every winter since four Christmases ago
when you yanked it out of the crimson Macy’s box
and bowed at Dad’s feet,
butterfly kissing the lining’s fleece.
Mom wails for her smart sweet boy, and I picture you
getting off that northbound bus, walking
down Pacific Avenue, Caulfielding everyone you see,
even the glittery girls who live off of phony
because they need to you wear them fervently
and then leave them hanging
like this, tenderly despised.