Coarse

I reached into the dark of the trunk

to find the cables next to the junk.

My fingers caught the heavy fold

of a garden sack grown damp and old.

The weave was tight, a gritty hair

that left a red and stinging flare.

It rubbed my wrist until the skin

was worn and raw and dangerously thin.

It looks like a dog’s pelt in the rain,

matted and heavy with a sodden stain.

I threw it back against the spare

and left it rotting in the stagnant air.