In the garage my dad digs through his clothing
from before his two years at Western Penitentiary.
He hands me a spoon & syringe.
I don’t wanna see that. Throw it away.
He found them in a pair of jeans & hands me the jeans
size 30 / will they fit you? / There’s no way I can fit in em now—
of stamp bags
in the shredder
on a spoon
above the medicine
in the basement—
on the door
ready to cook / shoot /
I rolled / opaque & callous
my fingertips before
it so grandma wouldn’t have to
the way she had to see
arrested in our home.
After driving him back to the half-way house
I pull the Wranglers on & they fit tight
around the waist & baggy in the legs
so I take them to Goodwill.