Receipt in the Pocket

This coat, you know, it used to be

a shield for someone else, not me.

The wool is rough, the collar high,

a faint old scent that lingers by.

I slipped my hand into the deep

left pocket, secrets it might keep.

And found this crumpled, brittle thing,

a receipt that doesn't sing

of purchases I made. It's yours.

A hardware store, now closed its doors.

Dated '98. A ghost,

of what you needed, what you lost.

The cold hard coin of what was spent,

the shape of where your hand was bent.