Not Mine

I grabbed the wrong coat

from the office hook. A note

was in the pocket. A name.

Not mine. A different game.

The smell was unfamiliar—

their shampoo. Something similar

to life but not my life.

A stranger's daily strife.

It fit different on my shoulders.

The arms were shorter. Colder.

The pockets had things inside:

A receipt. A gum wrapper. Pride?

I should have given it back.

I know I should. But lack

of impulse kept me wearing

this stranger's coat. Daring

to walk around in their life.

To carry their receipt. Their strife.

The button in the pocket

was loose. I didn't pocket

it or sew it or do

the right thing. Instead, through

the day I wore this coat.

I wore this stranger's note.

The smell is fading now.

The coat is becoming how

I dress. Becoming mine.

The line

between theft and owning

is thin. I'm not knowing

if I'm stealing or if

this is just the shift

of how things become ours.

How we carry. How the hours

transform borrowed life

into our own strife.