Registration

The pocket of this coat

is full of lint and old receipts.

My fingers catch on a piece of metal,

cold and thin as a dime.

It’s a bone made of aluminum.

The blue paint has been rubbed away

by years of hitting the ceramic bowl,

a frantic, hungry music.

I look at the number etched on the back.

It’s a house I don't live in anymore.

It’s a phone that would only ring

in an empty hallway

if I tried to call it now.