Adhesive

I’m standing in front of the hallway mirror

with a blazer that’s been in the back for a year.

I’m trying to look like a man who is new,

who isn’t still tangled in things he went through.

But the sleeve is a map of the life I just left,

a quiet betrayal of fiber and theft.

I see a long hair, wiry and white,

from a dog that I haven't seen since the fight.

I peel back the paper, that sharp, plastic sound,

rolling the sticky tape over the ground

where the ghosts of the living still try to remain

on the wool of my shoulder, like shadow or stain.

I’m stripping the layers, one sheet at a time,

hoping the surface will eventually shine.

But the roll is half empty, the gray is still there,

and I’m late for a dinner with dog in my hair.