I wore a death-proof coat, but it had to be taken off to air
An hour a day. It always rained in those days, and the coat
Was not waterproof – nor did it stop the cold,
Which could run its blade down the bumps of your spine,
In a manner of speaking. Naturally, the heat was made
Much worse in the coat. Life was miserable all over.
It’s sleeves always knocking glasses of port
Onto the carpet; lovemaking was numb and distant.
But for that hour, around sunset (although one was free
To choose the time), the coat had to be removed
And placed on a special rack, next to the books ideally,
And the wearer, who I’m sure was me, Descartes!,
Could prance about in the glorious risk of life,
Scoop flowers, tell a wife you loved her, or stand in the street
Watching the weathervane spin surreptitiously,
Exposed to death, sure, but also free from the coat.