Still Wrapped Tight

I found it while I was packing—

a spool of navy thread,

dusty,

wound tight,

perfect,

exactly the way it was

when I bought it

four years ago.

I'd bought it to sew a hole

in my favorite coat.

There was a hole in the shoulder seam,

small but growing,

the kind of thing you fix

before it becomes a problem.

I never fixed it.

The coat is gone now—

I don't know when I stopped wearing it,

when it went from favorite

to forgotten,

when I finally threw it out.

But the thread is still here,

coiled perfectly,

waiting

for a job

that will never happen.

The needle is in here somewhere too,

I think.

I never threaded it.

I've moved three times

since I bought this thread.

I've packed it up,

unpacked it,

left it in a drawer,

found it again,

packed it up again.

It's more permanent than anything else

I own.

More faithful than my relationships,

more reliable than my promises,

more sure of its purpose

than I've ever been.

I'm going to leave it here,

in this new apartment,

in this new drawer,

waiting for the hole

that will never be sewn,

for the coat

I'll never wear again.