Weekends plus Monday nights, I soaked it in the glow of street lights
and the smoke of cigarillos, dribbled poetry down the front of it
when the humid air was too stuffy,
its arms hugged my waist like a grunge rocker.
It never let go. I was in the nineties again.

Weekdays you wore it to class,
got ink from your notes on the elbows
rolled up the sleeves with a rattle of wrist-beads.
While you walked home you hugged yourself
squeezing the straps of the overflowing backpack.
The wind was no match for the comfort of wool.

It didn’t get a hanger, it was too proud
draped over the chair at the kitchen table
or waiting on the bedpost for whichever
one of us was leaving the apartment first
and desired the smell of the other.