The Plaid Hole

This chill, it cuts right through the bone.

Pulled it down, from where it's known

to sit and wait, a folded lump,

to ward off nights that make you jump.

That scratchy wool, a forest green,

with lines of rust, a faded scene.

It smells of dust, of old soap's ghost,

of all the things I've loved the most.

And there it is, the ragged tear,

the burn hole from a careless prayer

or just a flick, some stupid ash.

It holds a memory, a crash.

Not just warmth now, a heavy weight,

a shield against some coming fate.

It's history, in threadbare patch,

a broken comfort, hard to snatch.