There are three textures

Itching at my arm.

I don’t know any of them.

Maybe the fleece was cut

From a thick winter coat.

Maybe it had torn during a sled race

Gone wrong, and if I look closely I’ll find

Flecks of blood on the threads.

Maybe the cotton comes from

A picnic blanket, stained with grass green.

Maybe it’s still got ant legs

Bundled up in the fibers,

Or dog spit soiling the soft white.

Maybe the wool comes from

Your family’s yearly trip to Scotland.

Maybe it's a gift from an

Estranged Uncle, trying to understand

His only nephew.

But you don’t tell me any of the stories,

So I’m stuck with a blanket of itchy fabric

And a man in my bed.