Thermal Paper

The wool is heavy on my back,

a winter skin I’d half forgot.

I reach inside the inner slack

to find the ghost of what we bought.

A strip of white, a curled-up slip,

from that diner out by the bay.

I feel the memory start to drip

like salt spray on a freezing day.

In the corner, a purple stain,

a waitress’ thumbprint, etched in ink.

She didn't know about the rain,

or how we stood upon the brink.

I fold the paper, sharp and thin,

and put it back inside the seam.

I let the winter air come in

and wake me from a dead man’s dream.