A Skinny Suit (Poetry)

Sneak-thief pain has a habit —
takes my body without warning
puts it on like a skinny suit
squeezes in and does up
agony’s row of red-raw buttons
way too tight
pulls at the seams until
it’s out of shape
without a care that
it might not fit me well
when eventually I get
my old self back.

By then it feels
a crumpled heap — so
sad and baggy —
a sorry sight with edges frayed
from yet another long-aching
restless night
worn out — in need
of invisible mending
some quick repair job
to make it look like
it belongs to me again.

Meanwhile
though I’m resigned
such roughhouse treatment
must have aged the fabric thin
I recall it was made to measure
comforting flaws apart
the cut remains familiar
however shabby now
the texture slightly changed
so that’s what I hang on to
and find perversely
almost fitting.