The Blue Thin, Or, Not Enough Warmth

The cold just bit, sudden, a shock.

And I went, not thinking, to the drawer's deep stock.

Not the new one, the soft, fluffy white,

but the blue one, thin, barely holding its light.

From college, remember? That threadbare thing,

where the chenille had worn, almost a sting

to the touch, a ghost of its old plush.

It smelled faintly, of soap, then a hush

of something older, maybe late nights,

and the strange, cold, flickering dorm lights.

It still felt too small for my feet, a sad,

small comfort, the best that I had.

A memory, really, a desperate shield,

a quiet, faded, familiar field.

And I wrapped it around me, knowing it wouldn't quite

keep out the shiver, or make things right.