The winter day is done and the nightwatchman slides into his appointed position.
Goodbye Dear T—Your Time is Up
Goodbye Dear T. You have been so faithful in the hot summer months and the sticky monsoon season. I love you despite your shredded looks. I love that bullet hole (or what looks like one) in the front. I love that vent under the arm. I really appreciate the cooling punctures on the back.
I’m afraid your time has not come. Torn blue jeans are all the rage but no one is making a statement about these well worn faithful T’s.
I remember the day you came; you were sparkling white (or was it blue) and crispy. I washed you morning and evening till you had that comfortable feel.
I am afraid your time has come. Now they are coming for you. I told you not to get machine washed. We were so happy with our hand wash in the tub. It was only the damned caustic soda or whatever that cut my hands that I gave in to the machine. Now look at you. You look even older than me. I’ll try to hide you in some corner of my closet; but I’m afraid your number is up. My wife has seen you and she thinks you will be ideal for wiping the car.
Wait! I have an idea. I’ll hide you in the boot under the tyre and we will meet next summer. Bye bye my comfortable T. Cruel harsh winter is coming and replacing you with sweat shirts I’m afraid. Bye bye.
Etiliyle © - la poesia in una fotografia ™
[Musings on Cultural History ~ Clothing, chiefly]