The Weight of the Coat

The sky broke open by the park

so I ducked into the neighbor’s side door.

The air in the mudroom was thick and dark,

and the linoleum was slick across the floor.

Barnaby is leaning his flank against my knee,

a sodden golden weight that smells of swamp and pine.

It’s a humid, swampy musk that swallows me,

making the thrifted wool of my sweater start to shine.

The fibers stand up like they’re trying to breathe,

soaking up the steam of a creature just glad to be warm.

We’re both just waiting for the clouds to heave

and leave us on the dry side of the storm.