I Did That

The coat came out of the closet and I reached

for gloves. Found, in the inner pocket — small,

the kind you forget is there — a bleached-

out stick of foil. Creased. That's all,

almost. Except the fold: three clean thirds,

the edges lined. Not stuffed in. Placed.

The kind of thing your hands do with words

you're not saying. Careful. Slightly spaced

from careless. Which means I was somewhere,

thinking something, chewing, and I folded

this wrapper like it mattered. Like the care

was the point. The mint had gone cold

months ago. The smell was almost there.

I held it. Tried to find the day.

Couldn't.

Put it back in the same place.