My blue housecoat
It was never new
just new to me
like she was
She had it on
when I woke up
open, with the tie disappearing
between her naked legs
She’d made coffee
I felt uncomfortable with her sense of propriety.
the sun shone through a curtain-less window
dust danced in the rays
and cast diffused light on her face
a hard face, even in flattering light
a brow like a ledger sheet
agenda written all over it
She pressed that face into the pilled terry cloth
“Love that smell,” she said “your scent”
I noticed red stains on the worn sleeve
remnants of recent pizza
I felt uncomfortable with this intimacy
The windows have curtains now
coffee is on a timer
pizza, when eaten
is with a knife and fork.
I shower.
Every morning
she’s dressed, world ready
doesn’t wear my blue housecoat anymore
says it’s too embarrassing to donate
not even refugee-worthy
She knew
it was new only
to me
Like she is
![](https://www.discretionarylove.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/Screenshot-2024-05-02-at-11.56.04 AM.png)
Rod Raglin is a Canadian journalist, photographer and self-published author of 13 novels, two plays and a collection of short stories. His short fiction and poetry has been published in several online publications and aired nationally on CBC radio. He’s been a prize winner in Vancouver West End Writers’ Poetry Competition. He lives in Vancouver, BC, where he is the publisher and editor of an online community newspaper.