Inventory

Three weeks of the subway feeling

like a negotiation—

every step off the platform

a small argument I had to win.

Then yesterday for no reason

my legs just went,

past the stop, past the block

I always turn at,

down a street I had no business being on

in the cold.

I passed a dry cleaner I'd never noticed.

My reflection moved in the window—

coat swinging at the hem,

arms doing their normal thing—

and I almost stopped

but didn't,

because stopping would have made it

into something I'd have to explain.

So I just kept going.

Turned a corner I didn't need to turn.

The cold was specific.

The coat kept swinging.