Friction

The guy on the 6:15 train

has a jacket that makes a sound.

Zip-zip, like a rhythmic rain

shuffling over the ground.

It’s the ribs of the fabric rubbing,

those parallel lines of tired brown.

I can see where the elbows are scrubbing

against the hard plastic of the town.

The light catches the bald, shiny spots

where the pile has been rubbed away.

It’s the noise of a million small knots

coming undone at the end of the day.