Missing Weight

Reached for a pen, as you do,

in the coat I'd just pulled from the closet.

Found only lint, a threadbare seam.

The usual lump, gone.

The flattened bottle cap.

From the brewery near the old plant,

where the shifts dragged slow and hot.

I'd picked it up, just because,

kept it for luck, or habit.

My thumb used to find it,

working it smooth, the ridged edge

worn down to nothing.

Cool, almost silver, against my skin.

A silent prayer for the clock

to just keep moving.

Now, nothing there.

Just empty space, the cloth

like a forgotten room.

A small, quiet absence.

And the clock still drags.