Can I take your coat?

“Yes you may,” she said,
undraping herself and
slinging the thick red wool
over my outstretched arm.

I hung her coat up,
wet from the walk—
and returned to pull out
a dining room chair.
She sat down;
Her big ass collapsing;
Ballooning out
into her tight navy skirt—
filling it like
marbles in a coin purse.

“Can I get you a drink?”

She crossed her right leg
over her left,
revealing the tiniest triangle
of thigh high stocking trim;
Her pale skin piercing black lace
like windows of a passenger train
slipping through a moonless night.
“Yes you may,” she said.

“You like yours pretty stiff,” I remarked—
dipping the bar spoon into her cup,
before pouring another glug of Crown Royal.

She and I talked about nothing
in particular for what seemed
all night. Her coat had dried
but it was still raining outside
by the time she slid it back on.
Standing in the doorway; The rain
stamping out Beethoven’s 9th,
I decided I might as well ask her—
“Can I take your coat?”

written on 02/27/2011 by: Matt Kane