Unspool

I was trying to look halfway decent

for a thing at work, but the wool

is the only skin I have left.

Under the arms, tiny gray hives

of lint have gathered, stubborn

knots of every place I’ve been.

The kitchen table caught a thread

near my wrist, and now the cuff

is giving up. It’s a slow leak,

a row of loops losing their grip,

turning back into a single string

that doesn’t know how to be a sleeve.