Sleepwalking Through Another Morning Commute
A woman on the bus seems almost held
together, except for the loose button
on her left wrist seam.
My hair is wet and smells of peppermint.
My clothes are mostly clean.
My jacket has no buttons to worry about.
I woke still dressed in jeans, face smeared
into the kind of editorial glam that juts
out of photographs like clavicles.
I am not threadless. I am stringing
from the loose seams of spines
binding poems by insomniacs.
My spine could use some mending
this morning. Its frayed around the shape
of a man I didn't hold in my sleep.
My heels keep catching on loose ends
and stumbling me toward dawn.