on the fringes

I am a beetle, clinging
to the frayed hem of a
well-worn shirt sleeve -
made of ancient fibers
sewn together by hands long turned to dirt,
a shirt that's been worn to battles,
weddings, the births of many children
and on the deaths of many bodies,
old and young, passed down through generations -
and I know that I am one with this fabric
but I don't seem to fit between the threads.
So alone, I cling with my well-worn
beetle legs, on the fringes
of a shirt
that might just fall apart soon.