every fibre

the edges lay
grey and pilled,
woolen – 
silent folded arms
around the worn
copper zipper.
my father lived
in this sweater,
he stretched
and read
and smoked.
he held me
loved my mom
drank coffee
and paid taxes.
it used to smell
of ash and paper
from backyard nights
with his lit cigarette –
him staring out
at lost stars
and distant children.
now with him gone,
long after I left him,
he is here,
curled on my bed.

Categories: poetry

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