Close Enough

The bulb is humming a low, flat tune

above the table, late in June.

I’ve got the needle and the blackest thread

to fix the collar where the fabric bled

its plastic teeth.

White shirt, dark wire—

a map of every small desire

to look like someone who has got a plan,

or even someone who is half a man.

The jagged track is biting in,

a row of ants across my skin.

They’ll see the mend before they see the face.

It’s loud as thunder in this quiet place.

I’ll wear the scar and hope the light is dim

when I walk in to speak my piece to him.