The Faux Leather

The attic dust, a quiet plea,

to sift through things I meant to keep.

Beneath a stack of old decree,

a jacket, buried in its sleep.

The collar stiff, a plastic sheen,

that once was called a softer thing.

A faded brown, a lost routine,

no warmth the brittle fibers bring.

It smells of camphor, faint and old,

and something like a tired man.

A story in its texture told,

before the future had a plan.

The faux-suede cracked, a dry disgrace,

where elbows bent, or shoulders shrugged.

An empty, unremembered space,

a promise that the weather bugged.