Inventory of Smaller Days

The seasonal bins are open, spilling their guts,

and I am trying to bargain with the denim.

These jeans are a record of all the things I’ve cut

from my diet, my schedule, my momentum.

The silver button of the fly refuses to meet

the buttonhole, gasping at the waist.

I keep them like a trophy of a clean retreat,

or a map of a town that’s been displaced.

I should throw them in the donation pile,

but I tuck them back under the winter coats.

I’m not ready to admit that for a while

I’ve been living in the margins of my own notes.