Worn

The ribs have flattened. The soft spot

where my wrist bends inside the arm

is worn smooth by the friction

of living, the way fabric

learns the shape of skin.

Corduroy that fit me in,

that took me in, that learned

my contours the way

a ring learns the bone beneath.

Time is just wear,

just a jacket that fits better

the more it falls apart,

the more it tears,

the more it shows

what's underneath.