Odd is it that I should think of clothing
While looking at the horrific picture above.
What ragged soul bore the tattered shirt I wear?
What insistent thrashing from the fuming globe
Did the arms in these ragged sleeves undergo?
Of their troubles... might I know?
A second hand story, a second hand building,
Second hand smoke curling allegiance to breath,
Second hand food, second hand clothing.
Every piece of clothing I own has a hole in it somewhere;
A tear, a stubborn thread, shrunken look, sedated color,
A missing button, a snag, a raging crinkle, or furled collar,
Not unlike my heart over the genocide of a people.
© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
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