Synthetic

The lining is polyester, a cheap and plastic lie,

it catches on my thumb as the long hours crawl by.

A sound like a scratch, like a dry and paper itch,

I’m stuck inside this meeting, I’m stuck inside this stitch.

The heat is a hammer and the air is getting thin,

the fabric is fighting the texture of my skin.

Under my arm, a kidney-shape of salt and of gray,

marking the part of me that’s melting away.

I tried to look professional, I tried to look the part,

but the friction of the sleeve is tearing at my heart.

I move my arm and hear the rasp, the synthetic groan,

of a man who bought a jacket he should never, ever own.