Still in the Bag

The lease ran out. I had to sort for real—

four years of what I'd kept for no good reason.

The dress was in its plastic, dry-cleaning bag,

the tag still on, untouched through every season

I'd been moving through. The night it was meant for

went differently. I held it to the light.

The plastic crinkled. Forty-seven dollars

of occasion that never had its night.

I put it in the moving box. The bin

was open, three feet off. I know.

I taped the box and wrote MISC and closed it.

The van comes Thursday. Something I won't throw

away yet. That's all I know to say.

The dress has one more move in it.