the red sweater

on sunday,
with the sun
already down,
while folding
clothes
in the basement
where it's
never quite
warm enough
in the winter,
and a bare bulb
hangs simply
from the
unfinished
ceiling, and
the breath
from the open
mouth of
the dryer is
still warm,
and the towels
are hot in my
hand, i think
of you, going
up the stairs
one last time,
with that heavy
basket. your
shirts, your
socks, the red
sweater that
i bought you,
that you'll
never wear again.