Tension

The sleeve is giving up.

Three years of leaning on the deli counter

and the black wool has finally frayed

into a gray, itchy beard around my wrist.

I sat through the budget review

stabbing at the cuff with a needle I found

in the bottom of my bag.

The navy thread looked dark enough in the dim light

of the hallway, but under the fluorescent

it’s a jagged, frantic mistake.

I didn't finish.

The loop is still standing off the bone,

an uneven navy hitch that doesn't belong.

I let it stay. It’s better to have a bridge

that doesn't match the shore

than to have the whole thing fall apart on the train.