My Blue Shirt

hangs in the closet
of this small room, collar open,
sleeves empty, tail wrinkled.
Nothing fills the shirt but air
and my faint scent. It waits,
all seven buttons undone,
button holes slack,
the soft fabric with its square white pattern,
all of it waiting for a body.
It would take any body, though it knows,
in its shirt way of knowing, only mine
has my shape in its wrinkles,
my bend in the elbows.
Outside this room birds hunt for food,
young leaves drink in morning sunlight,
people pass on their way to breakfast.
Yet here, in this closet,
the blue shirt needs nothing,
expects nothing, knows only its shirt knowledge,
that I am now learning—how to be private and patient,
how to be unbuttoned,
how to carry the scent of what has worn me,
and to know myself by the wrinkles.

My Blue Shirt, by Gary Whited


This is the shirt I wore to work today. Dressing presentably might be one of the hardest things about work for me. I absolutely hate tucking in my shirt, and I'm not a big fan of belts. They remind me of my belly. I also don't enjoy spending money on clothes, but feel weird wearing the same things day after day. I have multiple pairs of the same pants and just rotate them so I don't have to think too hard when deciding what to put on in the morning. Let's not even get into shoes. If I ever manage to figure this out I'll be much more relaxed and happy.

I also had to think about what t-shirt to wear this morning, 'cause I knew I would be taking this blue one off to get my second Covid jab. I can feel the brain fog creeping in even as I write!