Red When I Need Black

My coat has a button

that's been loose for a month.

I'm standing in my closet,

looking for something else,

when I see it on a shelf:

a spool of thread

wrapped tight around cardboard,

red thread,

when I need black.

I pick it up.

It weighs almost nothing.

I could use the red anyway.

It would hold.

No one would see it inside the seam.

But I stand there holding it,

thinking about all the other repairs

I'm not making—

the fraying hem,

the zipper that catches,

the small disasters

I'm letting accumulate

because the materials don't match,

or I don't have the energy,

or I can't remember why it mattered.

I put the thread back on the shelf.

The button will fall off eventually.

I'll lose the coat.

I'll buy another one

that's also just barely holding together.

This is how we live, I think—

surrounded by the tools

to fix things,

but never quite the right ones.