Half-Closed

Ten winters, maybe more, this coat.

The wool thinning, a patched-up throat.

I grabbed it, morning cold and grim,

pulled the metal, to the brim.

It caught. A sharp, ungiving catch,

a tiny fight, a broken latch.

Mid-chest it stopped, no further run,

like a promise left undone.

I tugged, I cursed, I worked my thumb

against the metal, numb.

Bent teeth, a fraying thread,

a decade of rough weather,

all of it, held together

by this stubborn, useless head.

It’s just a zipper,

a small thing.

But it means I'm walking

with an open seam,

a cold slice

right down my middle,

and nothing to seal it.

Nothing to fix it.