Synthetic Heavy

The thrift store smells like dust and old starch,

a row of dead men’s blazers hanging on a wire.

I’m moving down the line in a slow, grey march

until my fingers hit a texture like a dying fire.

It’s a velvet coat, the color of a shallow grave,

crushed in the places where a body used to bend.

I remember the one that I couldn't quite save,

and the way a funeral feels like a bitter end.

I push the pile the wrong way with my thumb

and watch the fabric turn a dark, sudden blue.

It’s a bruise of a garment, heavy and numb,

carrying the weight of everyone I ever knew.