Beneath the battleship weight of my black navy jacket, I imbue the mundane with fetishised glory: The scratchy blanket smell of its dark wool, the embrace of heavy satin that extends up from the hem and down to the wrists, interrupted only by two pockets, sinister.
Its simplicity is its virtuous fault. The collar rises with the wind or draws close against a bitter hawk, but below the yoke there are no complications to fail or explore beyond 'which button, when?'.
It is worn and then removed. And when the weather warms, it waits; docked in the closet, a first-rate in ordinary.