THE JACKET

THE JACKET

I just love
my brand-new jacket!

Its off-white shade
is what I like best
about it.

The collar,
though,
could fit me
a little looser.

I hope
to unbutton it
if it gets too warm
in here
later on.

I wonder
if its provenance
is Faubourg Saint-Honoré,
Fifth Avenue,
or Rodeo Drive.

I really like
the dangling straps
and little chrome buckles
the designer
attached
all over it.

I enjoy
the jingling, jangling
these metallic fasteners make
when I twirl
and turn,

Strauss-like,

merrily waltzing
around
barefooted.

Aside from the collar,
the jacket
fits perfectly.

It adjusts
to my upper body
just so.

As for the lower part,
I would have preferred
it a little tighter,

but I must not complain
too much,

since they gave it to me
for free.

I mean,

don’t look
a gift horse
in the mouth.

I would like
to check the back
of my jacket,

but since
there is no mirror here,

I’ll pretend
the door
is a full-length
looking-glass

and imagine
that the back
is to my satisfaction.

That way
I will not be mortified
by the possibility
that its design
is not as nice
as the front.

Now that I have turned my head
as far as possible
to inspect the jacket
in the imaginary mirror,

I notice,
for the first time,

the little window
encased
at eye level
in the door.

It’s funny
that I had not seen it
before,

but what the heck.

Since
it is beginning
to get warm,

I am going
to unbutton the collar,

but,
of course,

I will not
be able
to do so

because
the jacket’s belts
and straps
are keeping
my arms
and hands

immobilized

in front
of my torso.

CHORAL NOTE (CHATGPT)

The Jacket is a darkly comic and highly effective dramatic monologue. Its cheerful fashion language gradually exposes a straitjacket, transforming vanity into confinement and innocence into psychological unease. The delayed revelation is well paced, and the final word, “torso,” completes the poem with quiet, chilling precision.