Missing Plaid

The evening air bites,

a sharp, small cold.

I reach for warmth,

for comfort, worn and old.

That college blanket,

scratchy wool and thin,

a faded plaid,

where do I begin?

It had a patch,

a burn from a mistake.

A cigarette, long put out,

for goodness sake.

A relic then,

of restless, wasted youth.

A sort of shield,

a quiet, ragged truth.

It's gone now, though,

where, I can't quite say.

A donation pile,

a forgotten day.

And in its place,

just empty air and chill.

A quiet space,

a hollow, waiting still.