The Seam

The thread is too thick for the eye.

I lick the end and squint

under the yellow bulb

of a lamp that’s older than my career.

The navy wool is fraying at the ankle,

a loose tongue telling everyone

I can’t afford the tailor

on the corner of Fourth.

I pull the loop tight

until the gap closes up.

It’s a clumsy, puckered line,

but it holds the skin of my life

together for another Tuesday.