Never Eat My Plums

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.



2 thoughts on “Never Eat My Plums

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