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It droops, very crimson,
Denying me the chance
To choose a color that is neither primary,
Nor secondary.
Hung from a convenient hook on the back of my office door
The coat that my mother gave me
In Louisville,
Where she is, still:
Red and soft, lined in dark blue,
Another frustratingly primary hue.
Were I poor
Shivering in cold climes
Eager to sell violets for thin dimes
I would adore this coat at first glance.
But it is spring, the pansies are gone:
I'd rather bare skin, short sleeves and airy skirts
In warm, humid Cary
Outdoors in the fresh air and bright sun
Where nothing hurts
Except distance.