Still Admits

The coat came out of the closet

smelling like last April—wool and something

I couldn't name until the left pocket

gave it back to me.

Plastic. My name. A room number.

The barcode still clean under the overhead light

like nothing had changed, like time

was just a different filing system.

I stood in the hallway with the coat half on,

holding the bracelet.

The date on the band is one I have managed

not to say out loud to anyone.

Not once. Not in two years.

And now October, and a coat,

and the whole thing sitting in my palm

like a bill I forgot to dispute.