Out of the Box

The landlord says the pipes are going to burst,

so I’m down in the dark with the dust.

I pulled out the wool coat—the one that was worst

for holding on to the things it shouldn't trust.

It smelled like peppermint and cheap, stiff spray.

A cloud of a woman who isn't there now.

I reached in the pocket. My fingers gave way

to something sticky and hard. I don't know how

a cough drop stays red for twenty-two years,

fused to the velvet like a small, sugary heart.

I held it and felt the hot prick of tears

for a coat that’s just trying to not fall apart.