Pocket Grit

Found it today, deep in the seam

of a coat I hadn't worn

since last year. A small, hard dream

of a place I'd left, forlorn.

It wasn't much, just grit and fluff,

a few stray threads, too.

But pressing it, rough enough,

felt like a memory I knew

too well. A tiny, foreign thing,

clinging to the lining.

What sort of comfort does it bring,

this accidental finding?