The Missing Piece

I notice,

the tear

in my shirt, hanging out,

slumped down in the kitchen, afterwork,

tired and tied rather than

rooted to the spot.

     A violent tear, a piece of material torn away, absent,

as if ripped off by a set of jaws,

or clawed by a set of taloned claws

and I can't remember where or how it occurred,

but it seems evidence of something truly

terrifying.

The frayed edges, like foam breaking on a shore,

about to pull back, trapped in a snap-shot,

a symbol of all I have got that is gone,

that goes but stays at the same time.

I remember when the clothes I wore

were mine. Now, these white flags,

battlescarred I suppose, are

a uniform, rather than: clothes...

Perhaps I tore it off myself,

an attempt to remember that

enormous shelf we are teetered on,

that each day I seem to move,

both toward, but in acknowledgement,

away from.

And I tuck the tear back in,

to pretend it's gone,

but the thought niggles,

is deep, and far and long.

I sip my tea and wonder

where the missing piece

is now? Where the missing

piece has gone.