Soft Bread, Not the Hard Kind

I found it in the pocket of the coat

I hadn't touched since you were sick —

a list you'd written on a phone bill's back,

the ballpoint pressed in thick.

Soft bread not the hard kind. Ginger ale,

the brand you liked, circled twice.

I stood there in the parking lot and read it.

The cold was almost nice —

something solid, something you can feel

instead of this. Whatever this

is called. Tomatoes crossed out, rewritten

with a question mark. I miss

how you second-guessed yourself on small things,

how you circled what you meant.

I drove home with the list across the seat,

face-up, read and re-read, spent.

Sat in the driveway, engine off, not going

inside for a long while.

The coat still holds that winter in its lining.

The ginger ale. That brand. That aisle.