The red thread

The wind is sharp, a sudden cold.

The wool is thin and getting old.

I reach to pull the collar tight

against the coming of the night.

My thumb finds just a vacant space,

a hollow in the fabric’s face.

One scarlet string is all that’s left

of something gone, a small-scale theft.

It hangs there like a narrow nerve,

exposed and twitching as I curve

my shoulder from the biting rain.

The bus is late. The street is gray.