The coat sleeve has been hanging by a thread

The coat sleeve has been hanging by a thread

for months, a loose and swinging heavy weight.

I dug through button jars and found instead

the cold and stamped-out logic of the state.

My finger caught a safety pin and bled,

a small, red bead that pooled against the tray.

I found his name, the things the sergeant said,

and thumbed the metal grease and grime away.

I wiped the smudge across the O-Pos mark,

a type of red he shared with half the world.

I put it back inside the buttoned dark

and left the coat's loose hemline frayed and curled.