He keeps them all in his satchel,
his exes: thirty years of tours
have taught him to roll them
for the best fit. Here’s one he could wrap around him
on those coldest nights. Here,
the athletic one—too much for him now; here,
another who made him look older.
This one went well with his eyes.
This one he wore until she wore out.
That one smelled like a fresh Dunhill
and April rain.
And that one he had the longest,
though his wife never liked the look
of him in her.
About his wife: there she is,
as he drags his baggage from the taxi:
brow knitted, lips buttoned,
arms folded as sharply
as a professionally laundered shirt.