Secondhand Lung

I pulled a heavy overcoat from the rack

at the thrift store near the tracks.

It smelled of cedar and a winter way back,

and the peppermint gum that someone lacks

the heart to spit out. It was thick and sour,

a scent that felt like a punch to the chest.

I stood there in the aisle for half an hour

with my face in the wool, a temporary guest

in someone else’s history. A yellow tag

was pinned to the lapel, a brittle square

from a dry-cleaner’s shop. It started to sag

under my thumb. I was breathing the air

of a person who’s gone, or at least isn't here.

It felt like a theft, or a very strange grief.

I hung it back up, but the smell stayed near,

clinging to my sweater like a thief.