the jacket

Ashley Capes
Nov 7 · 1 min read
Photo by Alex Suprun on Unsplash

on the chair
there’s a filthy spring jacket
light enough
to catch every stray hair

a landscape
deep with ridges
from weeks spent crushed
into couch cushions, an ant might
spend a season in exile
dragging a single
crumb like penance

how important tomorrow
becomes, for the moses
of this desert is
your jacket, its pockets
full of stubs and receipts

I could map out
days and weeks, movies
you’ve seen, coffee
at hudson’s and gelati
for summer

in the jacket
you linger in traces
and I rake them with my hands,
collect every scent.

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