Corduroy Scale

The bathroom mirror is a wall of steam.

I’m fighting the metal teeth of a ghost,

trying to make this old corduroy seam

close around the version of me I lost.

The zipper bites and finally stalls.

I peel the heavy fabric down my thighs.

A pair of empty legs slumped on the tiles

under the weight of all those grocery aisles.

There’s a deep red ring around my waist,

a belt of heat where the denim used to stay.

I look at the mark and feel the haste

of another year just slipping away.