The Wrong Direction

I was looking for a charger.

Found the jacket instead—

suede, brown, two years of constant wearing,

then nothing. In the back, half-dead

from the weight of other coats

piled over it. I pulled it out.

Held it by the collar.

Rubbed the nap the wrong way—that route

the finger takes when it's not thinking,

against the grain, and the color

goes darker where you've touched it.

There's a stain on the left cuff. Duller

than the rest. I never got it out.

I tried. I don't remember what from.

The jacket smells like a version of a year

I lived inside before I knew it would become

a year I'd think about.

I put it back.

Found the charger behind the shoes.

The jacket's still in there, in the back.

I know which way the nap goes

when I rub it right.

I know where the stain is.

I know I'm not throwing it out tonight.

Or any night, probably.

I just don't know what that is.