What the Wool Held

The coat is on the hook.

I haven't washed it yet.

Two hours in a waiting room chair—

something I can't forget,

which isn't the right word.

Forget implies it's gone.

This one came home inside the fabric.

It's still sitting on

the collar. Antiseptic,

and something under that—

almost sweet, the kind of sweet

that isn't. Like a fact

you can only smell. I drove her home.

She thanked me. Said she owed me one.

Climbed the stairs. Hung up the coat.

The afternoon was done

but the smell wasn't. Still

in my hair, my hands.

I meant to wash it that night.

Made dinner. Now it hangs

on the hook. I pass it twice a day.

I keep not going near.

I don't know what the smell is doing

still hanging here.