Little Parka

Dream of Mom’s red parka gone— someone stole it right out of the closet of the burned-down house—what good could it do anybody else, broken zipper that always got caught, she’d jimmy it loose, just part of putting it on—and she was so tiny, the arms too short even for me, too-tiny gloves in the pockets, thumbs stubby, practically useless to anyone but her—they deserve it if they shove in a hand, find the tissue she used and then left there who knows which cold day, what she needed it for, or why.