‘-for Ellen and Jim
You know that old T-shirt of yours,
puckered at the neck,
holes worn of bleach and laundering,
That shirt that gets in the way
when I fold clothes into stacks,
That shirt I object to
should you wash our car in it–
(better you wash a car with it.)
That shirt, your shirt, I’m always
to get rid of?
Well, I’m wearing it.
And nothing else.