You left it on the hook the way you left
most things - half meant, half hurried, wholly warm.
I wore it out to face the April theft
of light, and found your pocket kept a storm:
two ticket stubs, a receipt for pears,
a pen that only worked when it was held
at some impatient angle. Small affairs.
The archaeology of being well.
I did not mean to keep it through the spring.
I meant to bring it back the second day.
But weather is a stubborn, useful thing,
and so is any reason not to say
that I have worn your sleeves until they fit
and cannot now imagine giving it.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
