Pocket Weight

Cleaning out the coat,

the navy pea coat,

heavy with old winters.

And there it was,

in the left pocket,

a smooth, grey river stone.

Cool to the touch,

the familiar weight.

Worn almost flat

where my thumb used to rub it,

round and quiet.

I carried it that year,

the bad one.

A small, dumb superstition.

A solid thing to hold onto

when everything else

felt like it was slipping.

The fabric inside the pocket,

worn thin, a faint outline

of where it used to rest.

Like a ghost limb.