Lining

The interview is in twenty minutes.

I’m checking the mirror again,

pulling the lapels until the wool groans.

This was my uncle’s.

It carries the smell of his pipe—

that heavy, burnt tobacco

and the way he used to look at my hands.

It’s too big in the shoulders.

I feel like a child playing at being a man.

One button is hanging by a single thread,

swinging like a pendulum.

I’m afraid to touch it.

I’m afraid the whole thing will come apart.