Occupancy

The wool is heavy enough to count as a blanket

now that the radiator only knocks twice a night.

I bought it for twelve dollars

from a bin that smelled like a basement flood.

But under the lapel, there’s a persistent ghost

of peppermint and the oil from a stranger's scalp.

The silk lining is yellowed at the neck,

a map of every time they sweated

waiting for a bus that never showed.

I wrap their history around my ribs.

We’re sharing the same shivering air,

ten years apart,

wearing the same dead man’s skin.