Since 1996 Volume XXI
The White Jacket
I took it to be cleaned anyway. The one I wore to Key West in February.
Just the right length over shorts, capris, or skirts.
I sit now in a white wicker chair .
Outside with white wine.
Under the Dogwood tree.
When I was small I thought only rich people had such trees.
Further down, the green cathedral that disappears my birds.
Maybe I can think about the white cribs instead.
With their soft talcum smells.
Or the gown I wore with 100 pearl buttons down the back.
Crystal Pensacola where wiggly babies were held in low tide.
While higher on dunes Ken cooked eggs on a Coleman stove.
But that is the clock of snow that stopped.
Now. Here. This is better they say. This white paper. The Dogwood almost gone.
Copyright, Grace Cavalieri.