Synthetic Ruin

The salt has bitten through the fake-soft hide,

Exposing the cardboard that’s waiting inside.

I brushed the jacket until the fibers fell away,

Like gray snow on the carpet, a plastic decay.

There’s a mark on the cuff, a dark, greasy blot,

A permanent memory of a meal I forgot.

It won't lift for water, it won't lift for prayer,

Just a cheap piece of skin that’s starting to tear.