Like a hunchback on the floor,
Its shadow thinned by candlelight,
Faded jeans and jumpers fly,
Adding to its sloping height.
Each item wears its time of year,
From airy summer to winter-weight.
A flailing shirt falls to the floor,
Arms at the angle of ten-to-eight.
Stripes of blue and white emerge,
Print peeling from the chest,
A freckled face fills its hole,
Lips and hair once caressed.
Worn, but worn for something more
Than warmth, allegiance or style;
Memories and emotions woven in,
For now, it belongs to no pile.
I see character in all things worn:
The wire hanger bent out of shape,
The candleís wick drowning in wax,
The cotton neckís oval gape.
Those stripes still hang to the edge of a chair
As the hunchback is cleared away,
But every fabric sheds its skin.
Loosened threads will always stay.
Copyright © Trevor Conway 2015