Structural Integrity

Catching a glimpse in the plate glass window

between a display of luggage and a dead fern.

The gap in the shirt is a diamond of skin,

right where the solar plexus should be hiding.

The third button is a memory now,

probably vibrating on the floor of the 8:05.

I’m presenting a version of a person

who has it all under control, mostly.

But there’s a single white thread left behind,

curled into a question mark on the blue cotton.

I try to pinch the fabric together,

holding my breath so the secret doesn't spill out.