Overstuffed

The shouting stopped an hour ago at least.

Now I’m just trying to cage the beast

of everything I own in one canvas bag,

tugging on the slider till the stitches sag.

The silver teeth bit down on a woolly thread.

I should have left an hour ago, like I said.

But the zipper is frozen, a small silver grin,

holding my sleeve and refusing to let me in.