Whose Green

I was looking for a battery.

The drawer had other plans—

a half-used spool of dark green thread,

the color of a shirt that passed

through my hands years ago.

I've moved twice since then.

The spool came with me, or was here

already. No way to know when

it entered my inventory.

The loose end's tucked under the last wrap—

someone finished careful, closed it up,

a clean end left to snap

back to later. The outer thread

has faded on the ring

but underneath the green holds,

still vivid, the original thing.

I found the battery.

I put the spool back with the tape,

the screw, the things I can't account for.

I couldn't throw it out. The shape

of it—the tucked-in end,

the care of someone who kept folding

things away as if they planned to stay—

still sitting there. Still holding.