Your black,
heavy overcoat,
hangs from a hook
on the door.

It looks
haunted now,
a black phantom
of serge, with arms,
without hands,
unbuttoned,
holding a memory
of you inside its hold,
snuggled up within,
safe from the cold.

Your youngest brother
has inherited,
your black coat now,
he wears it higher,
being taller,
but it does not fit
so snug or hold him
so tight as it did you,
a short while ago.

He wore it
to your funeral,
buttoned up neat,
your heavy overcoat,
serge of black;
but he would gladly
have given to you,
if he could have
had you back.

I finger the sleeves,
smooth along
the black serge,
sense you there still,
in my mind's eye,
with black hat and tie
and black shades,
that Blues Brother gaze,
back in the good times,
my son, in your
good young days.