Grandpa's Metal

The rain outside,

a thick, grey sheet

hitting the pane.

It makes the air inside

feel old, like dust motes

in a sudden shaft of light.

I pulled the box from the attic,

wood smelling of cedar and time.

Inside a handkerchief, yellowed

and soft from keeping secrets,

the dog tag.

Cold against my palm,

dull steel,

the edges worn

smooth from friction,

not mine.

Letters stamped deep,

name, serial number,

a faith not his.

The thin chain tangled,

a memory of clanking

against bone.

A small, hard fact

of a life

I only heard stories of,

quiet now,

in the downpour.