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I can hardly see
through the slats.  I hunch and the coats sway
like ancestors.  The cleats stink
like an old season.  My wife looks in
at me looking out, saying hey
are there any words in there?
I say yeah but
they’re in here.  I say the closet
is a museum of certain
introspective articles
of clothing and memories
you can kind of bear.  I say
I hate tiny rooms
filled mostly with me.  My wife says who are you
talking to and I tell her
nobody, which isn’t true.  There’s enough
in here for the smallest kind
of life.  When I say
I’m talking to nobody, I mean
I’m talking to myself.