Aisle four is a forest of bolts and heavy thread

Aisle four is a forest of bolts and heavy thread.

I was looking for a tarp to cover the leaking shed,

but my hand found the canvas first, a tan stack

that hit me like a sudden weight across my back.

It’s twelve-ounce duck, stiff as a fresh-poured floor.

I haven't smelled that mineral scent since the door

of my uncle's garage slammed shut for the final time.

The weave is so coarse it feels like a physical crime

against the skin. It caught on a dry, jagged part

of my thumb, pulling a ghost right out of my heart.

He used to stand in the driveway, smelling of grease,

wearing this exact armor, never once at peace.

I let go of the roll. The fabric settled with a thud.

Funny how a texture can act like a surge of blood,

reminding you that some people are never really gone,

they just wait in the hardware store for the light to turn on.