Unclaimed Deposit

The laundromat window is fogged from the heat

but I see the shop across the one-way street.

Mannequins standing in stiff, rented black,

with clips on the waist and pins in the back.

I remember the day that I walked through that door

and put fifty dollars on the glass of the floor.

I still have the receipt in a book on the shelf,

a yellowed reminder I keep for myself.

A kid and his girl are inside there today,

laughing at the tailor in a loud, easy way.

I look at the receipt and I feel the old sting

of the suit that I wore for the lack of a ring.