I bought the coat on a Tuesday

I bought the coat on a Tuesday,

brought it straight home away.

Thursday, my hand found the pocket—

decided to unlock it.

Someone had lived here before:

receipt from 2019, and more—

coffee cup drawn in lipstick,

the date circled, thick

with meaning I couldn't read.

A pharmacy card and seed

of a flower, pressed and dried.

A photograph—she had tried

to smile for the camera's eye,

the coat's shoulders nearby,

still holding her frame.

I could find her, learn her name,

piece together why that date

was circled—but I can wait.

Instead I folded it back,

left the pocket black

with secrets and space,

and now I wear this place

of someone else's life

every time cold and strife

turns the world toward winter.

Some pockets make us splinter.

Some stories are best kept close.

Some lives we simply chose

not to fully know.