Borrowed Warmth

The night air bit, so I dug it out.

Uncle Frank's wool coat, still in the back

of the closet, after all these years.

Heavy, a deep charcoal gray, with buttons

like flat, dark coins.

Slipped it on. The sleeves swallowed my hands.

The shoulders, built for someone bigger,

slumped past mine, a kind of sad sigh.

It still smells of him, a ghost of pipe tobacco

and something else, sharp, like old ambition

dissolved in coffee.

It keeps me warm, I guess.

But it doesn't fit.

It's a skin I wear, but it's not mine.

Just a shape in the dark, holding someone else's

memory close, without knowing what to do

with the extra room.