Brick Memory

The library wall, coarse, cold,

my hand just grazed it, a reflex.

The sand-blasted grit, old,

similar to the uneven flex

of that other brick.

The one behind the bus stop,

where we waited, years ago.

The dust of it, a fine crop

on our jeans, the slow

slide of time.

This wall, new enough,

but the contact pulled me back.

The way those rough

points pressed, a small attack

of memory, not crime.

The specific, dry abrasion,

of a surface that held me up.

That simple, fleeting sensation,

filling an empty cup

with more than just the present.