The Shirt

I only had two shirts before
I met my wife and now I have nearly 40.
One each for a year on this
Turquoise world. I don’t iron my shirt,
I let creases make a statement,
Like I’m not one for pleasing others.
I’m just as rugged as the mountain side
Round, around the edges, of the 3XL shirt I wear,
Whose interior knows me as the fat man
Who locks into its measurements.
I’m just as disposable as any of my shirts are.
I don’t bend the rules, I take
Pride in that. Like this shirt of mine,
Buttoned almost to the top,
Letting some chest hairs poke out.
I take in pride in that too. How easy
I look, like the frothy alpine winds
Blowing through my under-arms,
Lifting me an inch above ground,
When I’m far from haughty, nor am I just an average Joe.
Only a feeling that anything could
Happen wandering in a shirt.
I’m in my own limbo, too cool
To ever realize, that the shirt is the panache and not me.
I look at myself on the mirror and then take it off.
I feel the temperature rise slowly.
I realize how cool the shirt was.
Cool in design, in material and in camouflage.
I don’t need to tuck in my tummy
In a slim fit. I’m just an illusion artist, practicing
Thermodynamics to my advantage.
I’m cool; which in simple English implies,
I’m almost an open fridge door

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