The Six-Month Lag

I reached for my keys in the winter coat

that’s been in the closet since the spring.

A lump of paper rose up in my throat,

a sharp and small and very sudden sting.

It was a receipt for his brand of smokes

dated a week before the heart gave out.

Not one of his long and rambling jokes,

just a bit of trash I forgot about.

The thermal ink is fading into grey

on a crumpled slip of yellowed paper-thin.

I finally felt him leave the room today

and let the cold and winter air come in.