Maria’s Yellow Coat
I haven’t had
a whole lot of what you might call
‘sartorial smarts.’
But outside the café
where Maria once sat
in her belted yellow long coat
there’s an empty chair—
this wooden folding chair functioning
under the same bewildered memory
of her savage yellow coat
as both me
and the weak, early December sun,
a sun that floats
like Maria’s knitted newsboy cap
just above the horizon.
On the sidewalk
near this chair
lie a handful of mauled wing feathers,
plain gray & black feathers
not a single passerby
can step past
without staring. They seem surprised,
these passersby. Some of them
even stop to roll a quill or two between
thumb & index,
drifting off, a look of mild dismay
and concern on their faces—
the sound in their ears a heartbeat
their own
but nevertheless not exactly
like theirs, as if for that moment anyway
they held in their soft, dry hands
the living bird,
their heads bent close.
