the jacket

(image via Dan_Park pixabay)

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.