Friction

She looked at my sleeve with a clinical eye,

something about being ‘current’ and ‘clean.’

I watched the blue shadows of birds in the sky

and thought of the winters this wool has seen.

I run a thumb over the knots in the knit,

the small, stubborn pills made of friction and time.

It’s a basement-smelled armor that’s starting to quit,

covered in lint and a salt-water grime.

It’s falling apart at the elbows and neck,

but it’s all that I have to keep the cold in check.