The Coat in the Bin

I reached for a glove and found a ghost instead,

a scrap of thermal paper tucked in the wool.

For a second, the bass from that night in my head

was loud and sweet, a steady, rhythmic pull.

The ink is a ghost-purple, fading where I touch.

We were twenty-two and the air smelled like rain.

I loved that terrible apartment far too much,

before the radiator started its slow, steady stain.

Then I remembered the black mold on the wall,

how the water pooled under the bed while we slept,

ruining the books, the shoes, the hope, it all

rotted while we laughed and the ceiling just wept.