What Sticks

The dog shook itself in the stairwell.

I was coming up with groceries,

milk in one hand, bell peppers in the other.

The water spray caught the overhead light—

brown, oily, the color of bathwater

nobody wanted to bathe in—

and I stood there watching it settle

on my coat.

The smell is still there.

I've worn the coat three times since.

Every time I put it on, I smell it.

It's not a bad smell, exactly.

It's just a smell that doesn't belong to me.

A smell that invaded without asking.

I washed it. Dried it.

The smell is still there.

When I pass the closet,

I smell it. A wet animal.

A boundary I didn't agree to cross.

The dog doesn't know.

The neighbor doesn't know.

But I'm carrying something

that isn't mine.

And I can't seem to put it down.