Just Pills

Found it, crumpled,

behind the towels today.

The gray cardigan, its threadbare skin,

dust motes clinging

to the tight little pills.

Like dull barnacles, stuck fast.

Gray on gray, a kind of moss.

It’s past its use, I know it is.

It hangs, sometimes, over a chair,

or sits in a heap, for want of care.

I touch the fabric, rough beneath my thumb.

A tiny, felted knot.

Like everything I can’t outrun.

Something I forgot.