What Gets Into the Fabric

Two hours in the waiting room.

Kevin's hand in gauze, me in a chair

beneath a television's fluorescent bloom

and a clock that was wrong. The air

was specific—floor cleaner, old coffee,

something underneath that isn't blood

exactly, more like the holding-off of

whatever happens next. It could

be nothing. Kevin got his stitches.

I drove him home. He said he was fine.

I pulled into my own driveway. Ditches

of quiet on either side. I sat in the line

of the headlights until they went off.

The jacket had the smell in the collar.

I went inside. The soft

weight of it on the kitchen chair. I'd holler

at myself if I could name

what I'm avoiding. Three days.

I walk past it. It's just a frame

of something I can't put away.