The Hitchhiker

I pulled the winter boots from the back of the closet,

shaking out the dust of a year I tried to kill.

Out tumbled a gritty, gray deposit,

spilling on the rug against my will.

It’s the same coarse sand from that July shore

where we stopped speaking and just watched the tide.

I thought I’d swept the ghost of it out the door,

but it found a seam in the leather to hide.

Now it’s under my nails and deep in the pile,

a reminder of the salt and the heat of the fight.

I can vacuum the floor for a long, weary while,

but the grit of you stays in the carpet tonight.