Rough Grain Memory

The new people left a tricycle on the lawn,

a splash of plastic red against the dying grass.

I’m standing on the sidewalk like a ghost,

staring at the seam where the brick turns to stucco.

I used to lean there until my back went numb,

waiting for my brother to finish his chores.

That beige grit was a sun-baked sandpaper

that caught the loose threads of my flannel shirt

and left little white flakes on my shoulder.

It was a wall that didn't care if I stayed or went,

rough and hot under the July sky.

Now the paint is peeling in a different pattern,

but the grit is still there, waiting to snag

anyone who stands too still for too long.