spouse's disgust makes for disappearance.
A nice clothing swap in the country.
The big vintage store in the sky; just
tell me it went peacefully,
without a lot of fraying, or rips.
Some are for a summer, or
an afternoon-- the joke so inside
It defies explanation, let it context
those photos from the time in
suburban Winco parking lot,
the one-off picnic you swore would
Some are goals. Ten fewer pounds.
A greater familiarity with the band's discography.
Twenty fewer pounds. The right blazer to
accent. Thirty fewer pounds. The roughly
same amount of pounds but arranged
better. I'll wear this shirt again some day.
But most, in this pile on the
clean hardwood floor of an apartment too
small for a lot of clothes, are for the memories,
and false promises. No heart for the trash bin,
the good will pile, these identities I no
longer wear and must admit; I'll never
make that quilt, that wall hanging, these
shirts will never be patches.
So they gotta go. If it's supposed to happen, I know I
hit enough second hand shops, ruffling through
others heartfelt discards, I'll find them again.