The Lining

My mother draped the wool across my back,

a heavy, charcoal weight that smelled of cedar

and the things I never quite became.

She patted the lapels like she was smoothing out

the dents in my own ambition.

I watched a wire hanger in the hall,

slowly bending into a narrow 'U'

under the pressure of a damp winter parka.

It doesn't break. It just gives up its shape

until the metal forgets how to stand straight.

I’m sleeping with my chin against my chest,

carrying the cold even after the coat is off.