The Unraveling Point

I’m folding the shirts on the kitchen table,

stacking the colors in wobbly rows.

This one is losing its brand-name label,

and the collar is soft where the fraying shows.

I pulled at a thread on the left-hand cuff

and watched the seam start to bunch and pucker.

The fabric is getting thin and rough,

the kind of trap for a sentimental sucker.

There are little white pills in the armpit fold,

gathered like grit in a tired machine.

It’s the weight of a body, getting old,

leaving its mark on everything clean.