Threadbare Utility

The handles give, a softened wear,

where fingers used to grip.

A network of exposed, fine hair,

a slow, deliberate slip.

This bag, once sturdy, meant to hold,

the weight of market days.

Now shows its age, a story told

in countless, broken ways.

Each thread, a single strand undone,

released from purpose true.

The weaving pulled apart, outrun,

by all that it went through.

It rests now, not for hauling fare,

but a quiet, seen decay.

A texture that the light can tear,

at the end of the day.