Scarf

You sit on my chair more often
than around my neck.

Your wool's unravelling,
smooth turning rough.

You are thrown around
carelessly, used as

a skipping rope
a blanket.

A shawl.
A blindfold.

Rarely yourself
and likely to be discarded next season.

Despite this,
you always seem to find your way

back into my hands.
I left you in the gym once

and thought I had lost you
for two months.

You, nonchalant, turned up
in the science lab, as if never abandoned.