Pilling

The lining is the first thing to go,

shredding into a gray, synthetic hair.

I reached back for a glove and found instead

a handful of loose tobacco and a bus ticket

with a date I’d rather not look at.

This wool used to be a thick, heavy kindness

when we stood on the corner waiting for the 42,

but now it’s just scratchy and thin.

It catches on my cuticles like a series of small,

intentional insults.

The pocket has a hole where my thumb fits.

I can feel the cold air through the shell,

reminding me that nothing stays whole

just because you decided to keep it in the dark.