Last Winter's Pocket

Five degrees, and the coat comes down off its hook for the first time since March.

In the right pocket, a glove, only the left one. In the left, a receipt: bread, two lemons, batteries, 12 February, 17:41.

I don't remember the lemons. Someone did, that evening, wanting tea, or a cold coming on, and carried them home in this past the same stop, breath showing.

The other glove is nowhere. I put the one on anyway and walk to the tram, one hand dressed for winter, the other holding February, a ticket nobody checks.