The leather’s cracked and smells of old tobacco

The leather’s cracked and smells of old tobacco,

stuffed with the scraps of things he couldn't leave.

I found a slip for some forgotten stucco,

and one for a suit with a polished sleeve.

Nineteen-ninety-four, the ink is dying,

trapped in a fold that’s worn into a scar.

The paper is a ghost, there’s no denying

how long he kept it in his pocket jar.

He carried proof of chores and empty days,

as if a receipt could hold a life in place.

It’s just a scrap within a dusty haze,

a bit of history he couldn’t face.