Left Pocket

It fit wrong at the shoulder,

the sleeves past my wrist.

I wore it all the way home—

just cold, nothing missed,

just borrowing.

On the train I reached in

to the left-side pocket and found

a receipt folded thin,

creased in thirds.

I held it between two fingers

the whole ride. Didn't read it.

Something in me lingers

on the fold of it still.

At my stop I stood.

I tucked it back the way I found it.

Pressed it flat as I could.

In the morning I gave it back.

He threw it over his chair.

I put my own coat on.

The pocket.

Just air.