The Collar's Secret

Before the coffee's even brewed,

before the house stirs, quiet, muted,

I stand at the mirror, half-dressed, half-shrouded

in morning's gray light.

My fingers find the collar of my shirt,

a precise, small tug, a smoothing motion,

adjusting the fabric, just so, without emotion.

It's never quite right the first time, always dirt

or a crease unseen.

A tiny ritual, a perfect fit,

my own small alignment, before the day is lit.

No one has watched this.

Just me, the glass, the quiet hum of the heat.

A private straightening, before the street

demands its piece.