Still On The Hook

I got the job.

I should say that first,

so the rest of this

doesn't sound like complaint.

I went to the closet for the blazer—

navy, good shoulders, bought

for a version of this life I was rehearsing—

and I got one arm in and felt the pull

across the back, that specific taut

resistance that means no.

The shoulders fit.

That's the part I keep returning to.

The shoulders were exactly right.

But the front wouldn't close by an inch and a half,

maybe two, and I stood there in the light

of the open closet doing the math

on all the months that made it tight.

I put it back.

Wire hanger, facing the wall.

Wore the gray one, got the job,

came home and stood in the hall

looking at the closet door.

I don't know why I keep the blazer.

I don't know what I think it's for.

It fits the person I was making.

That person got a little lost

somewhere between the job I left

and this one. I'm not sure the cost

was unreasonable. I'm not sure

what the blazer thinks.

It hangs there in the dark.

The gap between the buttons

holds its shape.