you're out in the cold waiting in line
in my old green jacket 

from my sister's old roommate

it's moved through the lifetimes

I first wore it in the hudson valley mall 

in the summertime to stay warm in the 

freezing air conditioned theater

underneath wearing a bathing suit and cut offs

feeling that my shimmering youth-beauty was all the more bright

from the swagger of wearing something truly unattractive

then years later i'd shed the coat instantly 

even dropping it on the floor

after getting on the 6 train

when we'd ride up to the bronx together

the first mother winter

i'd wear over the carrier

huge and lumpy

this tired year you're wearing it

on walks with your mom

now not needing to be held up so much

in the line to the bakery

the pockets of crumbs we've collected 

all these years

could fill a bread box