The leather has run out of holes

The leather has run out of holes

and still the buckle drags.

I sat in the bank's lobby chair

trying to look like a person

with a balanced ledger and a plan.

But the strap slipped again,

exposing that sharp, white knob of bone—

a spare part poking through

a suit sleeve that’s grown too wide.

The skin is a translucent rag

showing the blue plumbing underneath.

I am shrinking away from the metal,

losing the bulk of the middle years,

leaving nothing but the frame

to hold up the heavy face of the time.