It was grey flannel, plain and droopy,
with drawstrings and a large untidy hood,
not some zany creation
sporting pistachio pockets and baroque buttons,
but an everywoman’s coat
that somehow caught the attention of young
up-to-no-gooders,
who screamed like high hell from passing cars
that set off police sirens,
and made old men utter profanities
under their breath,
even yesterday it attracted a stray bystander
in the art gallery’s tearoom,
who asked if he could take a photograph.
“It’s the coat, not you,” he added,
and as she looked at the digital image,
she wished people were interested in her,
and not this ordinary garment
with the invisible wow factor,
but then why wish yourself even more trouble?
Linda Marshall
(From Half-Moon Glasses)