Synthetic

The wool is coarse and pilled between my thumbs,

a garment made for work I used to do.

It carries grit and oily, blackened crumbs

from shifts that lasted all the winter through.

I wore this skin until it wore me down,

polyester stitched with heavy thread.

It kept me rigid in a sweating town

while biting at the skin until it bled.

The tag is jagged, curled into a hook

that leaves a red and angry welt behind.

It’s funny how a single, closer look

shows all the cheapness we were meant to find.