Arthur’s Winter

The wool is thick and smells of cedar chest,

a heavy weight against my shivering ribs.

I bought it at a house where they cleared the rest,

the lamps and chairs and all the children's cribs.

In the pocket, tucked beneath the lining's tear,

is a slip of paper dated ninety-four.

Arthur’s name is printed small and clear,

a man who doesn't need this anymore.

One button hangs by a single strand of black,

swinging like a pendulum in the hall.

I pull the collar tight and don't look back,

wearing a dead man's ghost to face the fall.