The Fabric of Remembering

An old man, slumped

on the Q train,

his jacket

a geography of wear.

Corduroy, that thick-ribbed kind,

faded to the color of old coffee grounds

at the elbows, a pale bruise

where his arm rested

on the grimy window ledge.

It caught the light

then swallowed it,

all those tiny valleys

and ridges,

like a landscape

I used to know

when everything felt

less slick, less new.

You could feel

the history of a day

in that cloth,

the slight give,

the way it breathed.

I wanted to reach out,

just for a second,

and feel something

worn,

something that held

a shape,

a story

that wasn't mine,

but felt

like home.