Muscle Memory

The power went out with a flicker and groan,

leaving me standing in the kitchen alone.

I dug through the drawer for a light or a spark,

feeling for shapes in the heavy, cold dark.

The buckle was rusted, a circle of steel,

that gave off a sound that felt sudden and real.

A jingle of nylon, a scratch at the wood,

a ghost in the hallway where the water bowl stood.

The rug has a dip where he used to lay down,

a permanent shadow in a circle of brown.

The vacuum won't lift it, no matter the strain;

it’s a memory etched in the fiber and grain.