The Ten-Year Fastener

The slider catches on a missing tooth

halfway up the chest, right where the wind

finds the gap. It’s a jagged kind of truth

for a man whose luck has finally thinned.

I’ve worn the silver finish down to brass

with the habit of tugging while I lie.

I watch the reflection in the shop glass,

a man in a coat that’s starting to die.

It won’t close now, no matter the force.

The tracks are skewed, the fabric is torn.

It’s run its long and predictable course,

feeling less like clothes and more like being sworn.