The hanger swings silently, empty
of your oversized corduroy jacket,
from the inside of our bedroom door.
You wear it cause you’re cold.
A sign and its shadow out the front window,
A stretch of unparked curb,
Six bare shoulders, two watches refracting light,
You, within the shelter, hands inside your sleeves.
A bus stops.
All my clothes fit neatly
in three brown suit cases.