The Worn Pile, Or, The Crushed Nap

Through boxes piled, for charity,

my fingers, numb, found memory.

A child's dress, crushed, a muted thing,

dark velvet, not much left to bring

but dust, and lint, and a deep stain

of quiet, ordinary pain.

The nap, it lay, all flat and dead,

like fur rubbed wrong, or words unsaid.

It used to shimmer, once, I guess,

a hopeful, foolish kind of dress.

Now heavy, absorbing light,

a small, forgotten, somber night.

And sticky, yes, with something held,

a story silently compelled.

It clung, it did, to every trace,

a solemn, unremembered place.