Pile

The frost is thick on the glass today.

It’s a white crust, a dry rot.

I reached for my gloves in the pocket

of the heavy navy coat and found this.

A scrap of red ribbon.

I remember the way I used to hold it,

pressing my thumb into the soft side

until the fabric went flat and bald.

It’s crushed now. A dead spot

in the middle of the soft pile.

I don’t know why I kept it.

Maybe I just forgot to let go.

No, I think I just forgot I had it.

My hand is cold.

The ribbon doesn't feel like anything at all.