Still Coral

The jacket had been hanging since last winter.

I pulled it down for the wash and in the pocket —

her lipstick. Coral-pink. Still capped. The name

worn smooth to nothing on the base. I stopped it

turning in my hand. She left it on

the bathroom counter at a job I held

eleven years ago. I walked out with it.

No decision. Watched her look. Held

the coat closed in the elevator down.

She moved on in about a week, I'd guess.

I never used the lipstick, never threw it out,

just kept it in that pocket, I confess

without quite confessing — more like noting.

Eleven years. The color's still exact.

I put it on the dryer. I don't know

what you call a person who just acts

like something is their own until it is.

I put it back in the pocket.

The machine runs.