Goodwill ate all of yesterday
(**** my indecision.)

But I left with 3 dollars of fresh-spun grey
So
In a way
I’m winning.

It clings to me the way you did
But softer—immune to leaving

the contours of my waist
the curves of even breathing

Cotton oughtn’t
Outlive you but
It does—what can I say

Synthetic suits me
More than cruelty—
But not a day goes by

That I don’t bare my skin
(Breathe the fibers in)
Not so gently-used

And slip into the sweater
I wrought from spare change
Wishing it was you.