9/30: Half Lives of T-Shirts

Some are for life, or until some future

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

become tradition.

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.