The Red Jacket

The headless mannequin stretched its muscles
Proud, beneath the unfelt weight
Of burgundy wool, hatched
With black pencil-mark threads.

Buttons, like marbleized ears, waited
For someone to beckon their release.
Silent pockets hungered for the taste
Of breeze-chilled fingers to warm.

A hidden pin secured its declaration
Of extravagance, playing also the part
Of the halted wind, catching away a corner
That revealed its internal blurred-mirror sheen.

But as the lining whispered its welcome
Slipping over her arms, it was too small.
So removed, she asked it never be replaced -
As if the cost had strangled her desire.

Telltale regrets resting between sheets of tissue,
As the carton sighed closed, the refund
He received was her appreciation -
A perfect fit, and un-exchangeable.