Brick Memory

Waiting again, for the bus,

just leaned back, thoughtless,

against the brick. And thus

the old feeling, breathless,

of grit, fine dust on my coat,

a chill that settled deep.

It snagged a memory, a note

I’d tried so hard to keep

locked down. That alley, cold,

behind the diner, wet

with rain. A story old,

I haven’t quite forgot yet.

The rough scrape, on my spine.

The way the light, too thin,

would try to draw a line

around the space I was in.