Basting

The mailbox has a tooth for cotton,

a sharp edge I should have seen.

Now the wrist of my shirt is rotten,

a gap in the navy blue sheen.

The kitchen light is a yellow glare

that makes my vision double.

I’m trying to bridge the hollow there,

stitching through the trouble.

But the stripes don’t meet, they bunch and fold,

a knot where the seam should be.

A fix that’s ugly, tight, and cold,

and obvious to me.