The Shirt

The cloth that hangs,

on the door of my bedroom,

is an anachronism

that once was a fancy shirt;

that once was flaunted;

that once was unbuttoned

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Now has ended its glory, by

a wicked pun played by time

that has left the shirt in tatters,

infested with a nefarious fungus

that slowly reduces its existence

to a nothingness.

The cloth hangs on the door still,

untouched and neglected,

through the brightest of the afternoons,

and through the darkest of the nights,

longing for its lost glory,

longing for another pun

to be played upon it,

longing to be worn again,

and to be frisked and unbuttoned,

by the loveliest hand in the world.

Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.