The Center of the Ache

The shirt comes off like a second skin

that never fit quite right.

I’m sitting where the mattress sags,

watching the dust settle in the light.

There’s a bit of blue fluff caught deep,

a pill from the collar of a uniform

that cost me ten dollars and a week

of sweating through a Tuesday storm.

I dig it out with a fingernail,

a sharp little pinch to the gut.

It’s a hollow place that doesn't heal,

just keeps the door tightly shut.