Concrete Memory

Parking garage wall,

cold slab of gray.

My hand dragged across it

just to feel the way

the rough grit snagged,

a memory in the skin.

Not the same wall,

but the ghost of it came in.

That one, outside the bookstore,

pocked and damp,

where I'd slouch for hours,

a flickering streetlamp

my only witness.

Smelled of rain,

of old paper, of losing

the same bitter game.

Still feel the chill,

the way it ate the heat

right out of my back.

A brutal, slow defeat.