the blue wool sweater unearthed
from the wooden winter clothes box.
it hibernated under my house for the summer,
becoming home to earwigs, spiders,
shaking the sweater forms a cloud of memories
sawdust of past productivity fills the pockets,
never completely empty.
initials sewn into the collar
evoke an unknown "J.B."
even the earwigs and spiders have died.
all day, the dust sneezing persists
while the must makes me smell older.
we carry on together
sharing warmth and purpose
for a time.