Aunt Rita’s face is crumpled in my coat

Aunt Rita’s face is crumpled in my coat.

I found the card while looking for a note

or my keys. Her name is spelled wrong, I think,

or maybe it’s just the way the blue ink

faded against the gold-leaf border.

The world is rarely in any kind of order.

I flipped it over and found a ghost—

a dried shrimp tail, a tiny, translucent boast

from the buffet. I must have put it there

when I couldn't find a bin, or didn't care.

I remember the carpet in the hall,

beige and flat, running wall to wall.

The chairs left deep dents when they moved away,

little square bruises from a very long day.

I’m still wearing the same coat. I still have the card.

Living is getting remarkably hard.