Circulation

This coat still smells like the incense and pine.

I haven't worn it since the end of the line.

In the deep of the pocket, a crumpled-up bill.

The world in the park is soggy and still.

The paper is soft as a rag in the bin.

The ink is rubbed off from the nose and the chin.

I smooth out the creases on the damp, wooden slat.

It’s survived the pockets, and that is that.