The Snag

The kitchen is hot and the stove is still on,

I’m trapped in this coat and I want to be gone.

The slider is buried in wool and in thread,

a silver-toothed trap that is filling with dread.

I tug at the collar, I pull at the base,

the sweat is starting to run down my face.

A jagged-edged jaw has a hold of the knit,

and the more that I struggle, the tighter it bit.

I’m stuck in the middle, not out and not in,

just a cold metal tooth pressing hard on my skin.