The Hall Closet

The rain is hitting the pavement hard tonight,

smelling like metal and the end of the heat.

I dug for the umbrella tucked out of sight

and found the blue nylon, frayed and beat.

It’s been ten years since the vet’s back room,

but the clip is still rusted, the spring is stuck.

The cedar chest smell and the closet gloom

hide the white hairs caught in the buckle’s muck.

I hold the loop where my wrist used to go,

the weight of the ghost pulling toward the street.

The sky is a bruise that refuses to show

anything more than the sound of the sleet.