Mechanical Failure

The bus is pulling away three blocks down.

I’m tugging at the metal slide,

my knuckles white, a frantic clown

with nowhere left to hide.

The navy thread is chewed into the track,

a tiny, stubborn piece of lint

that keeps the cold against my back

and gives the day its tint.

I look at my watch and the 'V' of my chest,

unzipped and open to the street.

The world demands I look my best

while I’m coming incomplete.