Barnaby's Brass

The cold glint of it, dull and deep,

cupped in my palm. Brass worn thin.

'Barnaby' etched, secrets it could keep,

and an address, where I've never been

since. The numbers blurred, almost erased

by time, by dirt.

A faint green film, years unchased,

a small, round ache, a silent hurt.

It smells of nothing, now. Just metal.

But I remember the rattle, a tiny bell

against his collar. The way it would settle

when he'd nap, a story it could tell.

It weighs more than it should, this thin coin.

Proof of a chase, a life, a joy once mine.