Grit

It's the leftover bits that get me.
For days after, they show up
bouncing and falling
from creases and folds and pockets.
Just when I think I cleaned the last of it,
another round shows up,
teasing me with memories
of sitting on soft driftwood,
sharing silences of soul friends,
watching the horizon hue shift to pastel,
collecting bits into my fingers
to rub grit against the brown surface
clearing the residue of pollen
plus ten year old waterproofing
that smelled like vinegar
and left a film of snot
on the worn leather
of my second hand shoes.