It Runs

as a rip in my stocking. It grows with
movement. We never sit still. We’re never
perfect. There are other ones, newer,

in-tact. They don’t get ripped. They sit
still, inside they’re cartons.  When they
come out they’re careful.  So careful they wear

gloves. To be worn is to be stretched and
misshapen into something else. The last result
was a giant hole. That pair was thrown

out. We’re too smart for that. We have
too much class. We can stretch without tearing.