Borrowing

The frost is thick upon the glass,

I’m waiting for the cold to pass.

This wool is heavy, dark and old,

keeping me from getting cold.

In the pocket, tucked away inside,

is a slip of paper where a name might hide.

A pharmacy receipt from a town out west,

stuffed in the lining near my chest.

The collar smells of peppermint and soap,

a stranger’s scent, a stranger’s hope.

I’m wearing a life that isn't mine,

standing in the morning's graying line.