Under the Counter
Stroking fake furs convincing as clever
impressionists, my hand is pricked by
the pine needle pelt of genuine mink.
The coat is no peroxide starlet but a
hooded, calf length defence against
proper winters. Petting it, I recall when
‘a mink for the wife’ was on every husband’s
pools win list. Their cast iron glamour
outliving owners to be willed to daughters.
Now young women clearing great aunt’s
attic strike Marilyn poses before mirrors
fearful of parading them in public, but
knowing their value to less squeamish
tourists, bring them to this sanctuary.
The proprietor beckons me to a white
fox fur jacket, slipped from Bianca Jagger’s
shoulders in Studio 54 now tethered in
a cupboard. We ogle the skin like seedy
punters in a back street sex shop.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be pleased