The Stubborn Knots of Wear

Pulled it from the box, a woolen drape,

heavy with winter, and the dust of days.

My thumb went searching for a certain shape,

the tiny pills that catch in subtle ways.

Like grit under the skin, a familiar bump,

where the sleeve has rubbed, or the elbow's bent.

Not smooth, not new, a kind of worn-out lump,

a soft refusal of what newness meant.

The color's faded, yes, a washed-out blue,

and threads hang loose where buttons used to cling.

But I won't lose it. Something in it's true.

These knots, they cling to every single thing.

And something in my hand just holds it tight,

a texture holding fast against the light.