Palmful of Dust

I walked by the lot.

The one that’s been empty.

For years, just weeds.

And broken glass.

A sudden impulse.

To stop.

To bend down.

And cup my hand.

It was dry.

Reddish dust.

It spilled through my fingers.

Fine grit on my palm.

A small stain.

It’s the dirt from then.

From when I was small.

And knew all the edges.

Of this town.