Everything That Sticks

The interview is in twenty minutes.

I’m in the hallway, frantic with the plastic handle,

ripping back the top layer with a sound

like a dry bandage coming off a scab.

It was supposed to be a clean blazer.

But the adhesive is dredging up the past:

a long, wire-gray hair from the dog you took,

a bit of blue thread from a rug we threw out,

and a speck of glitter from a New Year’s

we both promised to forget.

I roll and I roll until the paper is gray,

clogged with the friction of living in one place too long.

I tear it off, expose the fresh sticky white,

and wonder how many layers I have left

before I’m just a wire frame.