The Stain That Stayed

The tag says initials I don't recognize.

The sleeve has a stain that won't come out—

coffee or wine, the evidence

of someone else's small carelessness.

I bought it anyway.

At the grocery store I checked the pockets

like I might find a note,

a reason,

an explanation for why this coat

lived in a Goodwill bin

and why I walked past all the other coats

to find this one.

The pockets were empty.

Which is worse somehow.

Not even a receipt to tell me

where they've been,

what they bought,

why they left.

Just the stain and the shape

of shoulders that aren't mine

and the strange comfort of wearing

someone else's mistakes.