The Shirts

These shirts show signs of wear and tear,
The collars frayed, the cuffs rubbed bare.
I see the signals everywhere.

I see them in my mind like doom.
They float like ghosts upon the loom.
I slip them on like skin, perfume.

I'll have the collars turned before
I fold them neatly in the drawer.
Perhaps they'll look like new once more.


© Glen Fisher