Residual Heat

I’m wearing his canvas coat today,

the one with the frayed and oily cuffs.

Despite the soap and the windy day,

I can’t shake the scent of his Lucky Strikes.

I am the blurred edge of the family tree,

the one tucked behind the sofa’s arm.

They saved the hand-me-down space for me,

a little bit of noise to keep from harm.

At dinner, I took the plastic chair,

the one that groans beneath a man.

I sat at the corner, almost not there,

finishing the life that they began.