This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO


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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