The Snag

The brass tab, cold,

familiar weight.

Ten years old,

this jacket, its fate

to wear a groove

into my shoulder,

a worn-out proof

I’m growing older.

It snags, of course,

a frayed thread caught

near the bottom's force.

A silent, tiny war fought

each morning, the teeth

hesitant, refusing to meet.

A memory underneath

the pull, incomplete.