The Lining

The radiator gives a hollow metallic thud

then goes back to sleep.

I pull the heavy navy wool

over my shoulders, smelling of cedar

and someone else’s basement.

My finger catches in the pocket’s throat,

sliding past the frayed seam to the cold

weight resting against my hip.

I pinch the small, sharp thing

and pull it out through the tear.

It’s a milk tooth, rooted in a plastic square

turned the color of old scotch tape.

A bit of bone some mother forgot

to leave for the ghost.

The edges are jagged, and the wool

is scratchy against my neck.