Hem

The interview is soon. The button took a leap.

I’m digging through the drawer while the city starts to beep.

I licked the end of black—well, it’s more of a charcoal gray—

and now it’s like a broom that’s had a very long day.

The needle eye is tiny, a silver, mocking slit,

I’m shaking so much now I’ll never master it.

The spool is almost naked, the Styrofoam is bare,

it’s pockmarked like a bone that’s gasping for some air.

I’ll go with one sleeve loose, a flapping, open wing,

and hope they don't notice I’m failing at this thing.