The tuxedo is hanging on the back of the door

The tuxedo is hanging on the back of the door,

pressed and stiff, ready for the floor.

But I’m sitting here in this wool that’s gone thin,

feeling the itch of the world on my skin.

I tried to shave the pills from the sleeve,

a surgical fix for a thing I won't leave.

But the razor got stuck in a knot of old thread,

leaving a jagged, white mess there instead.

A loose loop of yarn is caught on my thumb,

tight as a ring, making the tip go numb.

It’s a tether to something that’s falling apart,

but it’s softer than anything new in the mart.