July 7, 2016


I like the oldest
of silk shirts,
found now only
in second-hand stores,
soft on the skin,
lightly bearing spirits
from their sartorial past,
prone to tear
at the least provocation,
almost too comfortable
in dry, desert air,
sliding off at night,
awaiting my touch
in the dark of morning,
marking me out
as a full-fledged member
of old-guys retired,
no longer dangerous,
merely walking
through summer heat,
divining others
of my kind.