The Split Tooth, Or, Ten Years of Hold

This jacket. Denim. Stiff still, almost.

Even after all these years, a ghost

of its first wash, so many washes gone.

I pull it on. Like habit, like dawn.

And the zipper. My old friend, you know.

It’s had its moments, sure, but the slow

grind of it, always worked. Until now.

Today, it snagged. A small, sharp 'ow.'

Not from me, but the metal. It split.

Right at the bottom. The teeth, they quit.

Just like that. A perfect 'V' now, where

it should be straight. I run my thumb there,

over the tiny tear. A decade.

Ten years, it held. And now, a parade

of undone threads, the cold air seeping in.

Just a zipper, a broken thing. My skin

feels the difference. Unprotected. A little.

I keep trying to pull it, just a little

more, to catch. But it won't. It's done.