When I glanced at her,
she was wearing only a fur coat,
wrapped around her naked body.
So hypnotising.
A woman so beautiful
I had never known,
a miss, not once I possessed
to lay my eyes upon.
There she was.
My Madonna in a Fur Coat.
That is what the artist
likes to call the art.
Curiosity took me to places
I ne’er belonged.
Call it despair
or a fascination.
Following Madonna’s footprint
through the gravel,
I found myself
in front of a secret door.
Glowing in neon green light,
within the dark alley,
the sign above read:
Atlantik.
A lively cabaret club.
The sour smell
of cheap alcohol
and body heat
hung thick in the air.
Quite a sight to behold,
a view that clashed
with my nature.
I see Madonna in silk,
pantyhose exposing
her fragile long legs.
She sat on my table.
An overcast of shadow
lit across her face
as she fiddled with the violin,
playing with her delicate fingers.
My eyes were fixated on her.
A stream of people
blended within shadow,
disappearing into the blackness.
In that moment,
it was me and my Madonna,
close enough to listen
to her breathing,
in my ears.
too far,
to not reside
in her heart.
No one has loved me
not quite like her.
Here she is,
My Madonna in a fur coat.
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