And a pair of old shorts I found
in your closet, threads dangling from
the disintegrating khaki fabric.
I sleep on my back at night, careful not
to disturb the pillow on your side of the bed.
In the morning I’m unpracticed at making coffee,
Stumbling through the task, forgetting the filter,
or remembering the filter, forgetting the filter basket.
Your hat, the one you bought for hiking hills in Sicily,
fits me perfectly. I look like
an Australian crocodile wrassler,
or maybe the Marlboro man, though
your hat has a chin strap and a toggle.
Vents above the brim let in the sweet morning air.
Your hat smells like you, the sweatband
Exudes the scent of your soap and your shaving cream.
When you come back I’ll happily surrender the hat,
Strands of my hair stuck fast to its woven fibers.
originally published in January 2017, in Punting, Origami Poems Project