His Brand

I found it in the pocket of a coat

I hadn't worn since February — still

wrapped, a little bent. Before I'd thought

to read the brand name, something in the fill

of the foil, the give of it, already knew.

His brand. He kept them in his shirt pocket —

always. I'd steal one at crosswalks, two

small fingers in. He never locked it

away. He's been dead three years. I stood

in the hallway, the coat still on one side,

one arm free. I understood

it slowly — the logo, the slight slide

of memory. My hand not moving.

The stairs in front of me. Not moving.