Her Mother's Fur Coat (&Quot;The End Of The Affair Is Always Death&Quot;) Poem by Patrick Lodge

It wasn't that cold
for October
in Massachusetts
enough chill
to make
her mother's fur coat
a rational choice

fifteen years hanging
in the labyrinth
darkness of the closet
it rose
to the occasion
arms hung out
a dusty red embrace

you offer yourself to
Asterion
soused with vodka
old perfume reek
roaring
for the garage
where the obedient car

at one turn of the key
surged current
ignited the monster
V8 rumbles chthonic
falls back
to a muted chant
from the pit

the front seat a woman
regresses
into a fur coat
ringless to complete
a deeper circle head down
the engine will stop
the worn satin lining cool.