Pile

The pile was worn flat at one elbow.

Not threadbare. Just pressed down and gray,

the way fabric goes when an arm leans

on something, over and over, the same way

my mother's blazer went—

the one she wore to every school night,

every parent-teacher, every concert,

buttoned to the throat, posture right,

sitting in the folding chair like she'd

been there for years and had every right.

I stood in the aisle holding the sleeve.

The fluorescent fixture flickered white.

The tag said seven dollars. Half off Tuesdays.

I put it back. The hanger swung.

It hung there between whoever dropped it

and whoever. I was done.