Admit One

The wool is heavy, smelling of the rack

and someone else’s winter in the rain.

I felt a sharp edge pressing in the back,

a localized and stationary pain.

I dug into the lining, past the thread,

and found a yellowed slip of paper there.

A hardware expo, twenty years since dead,

with a rusty staple through the word 'Repair.'

I wonder if they bought the tools they sought,

or if the house stayed broken anyway.

I’m wearing all the cold the stranger bought

and carrying their chores into my day.