Wrong Direction

I had forty minutes and nowhere to be

so I went where there was a door and a bell —

a secondhand shop, the kind that smells like someone

else's closet. I know that smell well.

I wasn't looking for anything. I touched

a dark green blazer on a rack and stopped.

The nap went lighter when I brushed against it.

Then darker going back. My hand just dropped.

I thought of you — not like that, just the shape

of a Tuesday that once had you in it somewhere.

You live in Portland now, or maybe Seattle.

I haven't called. Three years. I'm aware.

I put the blazer back. I had time left.

I stood there with my hand still on the sleeve.

The nap goes lighter, darker, lighter, depending.

I'd leave eventually. I left.