I huddle under a quilt the grandmother of an ex-girlfriend
knitted for me 40 years ago after she learned I lived in a cold water flat and
would not longer have her granddaughter to keep; me warm.
There are always gifts like this that linger on long after
the affair has concluded, the kiss, the touch, the memory knitted that scratches
at my flesh, and yet remains precious, and still keeps out the chill.
Some gifts are less visible, less tangible save in the mind,
the late night calls I no longer get, yet recall, as if a poem memorized line
by precious line, keep me warm in a different way, scratching something I need
scratched, deep down inside.
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