Pocketed History

The trench coat, thrift store glory,

felt good, worn-in, telling its own story.

Until I plunged my hand, just now, inside

a deeper pocket, where old secrets hide.

Fingertips found something thin and flat.

A crushed-out cigarette. Just like that,

a ghost of smoke, of someone else's vice,

a faint tobacco smell, not very nice.

And then, a ticket stub, three years old, creased,

'Midnight Matinee', the movie unreleased

in my memory. A stranger's careless moment,

smelling faintly stale, like regret, half-spent.

I hold it for a minute, then let it drop.

Just a quiet hum. A full, dead stop.