The Catch

The wind is coming off the lake.

I pull the wool for the season's sake,

but the zipper stops near the hollow bone

of my throat, leaving me here alone

with the metal teeth that will not bite.

I tug at the fabric, I pull with my might,

but a single thread has wedged its way

into the track of a colder day.

The black paint is gone from the sliding part.

The zinc is greasy, a dull gray heart

revealed by the years of being pulled tight.

I am trapped in the coat in the failing light.