What It Held

He kept a velvet pouch inside his coat,

left breast pocket, buttoned. I found it

bagging up his things—no note,

no contents. Just the cloth, the soft of it.

One corner rubbed to almost nothing: his thumb,

returning to the same spot, over and over.

The way you press a bruise until it's numb,

until you've memorized it. Eight months. October.

I stood in the hallway longer than I meant.

Set the pouch on the radiator. Walked

into the next room like I had intent.

The coat went in the bag. I should have talked

to someone about this. I'm writing it down instead.

The velvet thin as paper where he held.