Rubbing

Bought it on clearance, thirty percent off,

the fabric thick and stupid cheap.

I wore it and the sound won't stop—

each movement creates it,

that scratching, that soft rip

of corduroy on corduroy.

My sleeve against my ribs.

My wrist against the cuff.

The seams are loose, the stitching rough.

I move my arm and hear it laugh.

Lift it up and hear it sigh.

The sound is cheap. The sound is mine.