What Soft Things Refuse to Do

I was looking for something else.

The jacket was at the back of the closet,

soft as an argument I'd stopped making,

hanging where it was left.

I stood there not touching it

for the appropriate amount of time,

then touched it anyway.

The suede held my thumbprint

for a second.

Considered the shape.

Let it go.

I keep turning that over—

how the material kept nothing,

offered the impression

and then corrected it,

smooth again,

like it had things to do

that didn't involve

whoever showed up.