The Halfway Pull

The early meeting, the coffee's bitter taste,

my cheap pleather jacket, cinched in haste.

Then, right over my stomach, a cold, hard snag.

That stubborn zipper, caught on some loose tag.

I tug, I pull, I swear under my breath.

It's stuck. Like me. On the slow track to death

by embarrassment. A tiny, gaping hole

right there, exposed. Losing all control

of my outfit, my mood, my morning fate.

This metal tooth, it just seals my estate

of permanent frustration, halfway done.

And now my appointment, barely begun.