Get Your Coat

A View From My Bay






It's packing day, get your coats, you can no longer stay.


All you negative guys must be on your way.




You bring nothing to my life that is sustaining in any way.


You drain the blood that feeds my way.


Suck the life out of all that is right.




I do not care where you go, but get your coat, the idea of you staying here is a resounding no.




I get that you think you are all that, but we both know it is an illusion, and you are full of crap.


So please get your coat before I lose all hope.




Your negative ways tend to cancel out my positive praise.


Your infectious frown stands as a pending plague upon the blessing of which I am bound.




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Your youngest sister
wears your blue
and white coat now,
my son; it brings her
some comfort
since your
sudden death.


She zips it up close,
to keep her warm,
thinking you
are still there inside,
to keep her safe.


I remember
you wearing
that white
and blue coat,
on your way
to work or back,
or out for the day
in all climes.


They were
the good days,
good times.


You use to zip it up
close to your chin
to keep the cold out,
the warmth in;
hands in the pockets,
elbows back,
like some large bird
about to take off
on a long flight.


You have taken off now;
set your soul's keel
to the open sea
of eternity.


I sometimes dream
of you at night,
see you as you were
before the stain
of death approached;
your smile spreading,
your blue eyes bright.

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Your black,
heavy overcoat,
hangs from a hook
on the door.


It looks
haunted now,
a black phantom
of serge, with arms,
without hands,
holding a memory
of you inside its hold,
snuggled up within,
safe from the cold.


Your youngest brother
has inherited,
your black coat now,
he wears it higher,
being taller,
but it does not fit
so snug or hold him
so tight as it did you,
a short while ago.


He wore it
to your funeral,
buttoned up neat,
your heavy overcoat,
serge of black;
but he would gladly
have given to you,
if he could have
had you back.


I finger the sleeves,
smooth along
the black serge,
sense you there still,
in my mind's eye,
with black hat and tie
and black shades,
that Blues Brother gaze,
back in the good times,
my son, in your
good young days.

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