Pockets

The evening cools. The closet door needs oil, scraping in the track.

They are all there, orderly (somewhat) on the hangers. Their pockets are time capsules. They greet my fingertips with faded bits of February: a forgotten pen with a scribbled note to buy soap; a dinner receipt from a restaurant that has become a fusion something-or-other; a candy wrapper or popcorn kernel from a chill night when a flickering screen was all that kept away an unwanted solitude.

Hello, autumn. Hello, sweaters and jackets, coats and cardigans, which give my hands their old homes again.

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