November's Wants

The coat, still smelling of last winter,

heavy with a damp-earth kind of quiet.

Deep in the pocket, a crumpled thing,

a ghost of what I once meant to acquire.

Soft paper, almost wet.

The date, smudged, November.

Coffee, a brand I haven't touched since.

Small things listed, butter, bread, remember

that one specific soup?

It feels like someone else wrote it,

a younger hand, with clearer aims.

The rain today, a similar beat

on the window pane, playing small games

with the light.

It's just paper, just a list.

But the way the ink

has faded, almost kissed

the fibers into blank, makes me think

of all the things

I bought, or didn't.

The weather changes, winter

to this new, tentative spring.

And what we need, or what we invent.