The Sweater;
It’s fraying, it’s balled,
The shaver’s a waste
It covers more flesh,
than a nun’s practiced chaste.
Its’ cowl blankets curves
….. truly worth seeing,
It’s hand on my skin
Tickles the core of my being,
I know it ain’t pretty,
The hangers snicker so,
If a sweater could talk
It would say “I must go…”
It’s weave and it’s knit, snugly dense, not sheer
It knows sweater stuff,
Like a German’s knows beer
Just….pull it on just once, just- one winter more
I’t’ll forgive you for leaving it in a heap on the floor,
the collar’s rubbed thin from the brush of my chin,
It’s the weave has hues of red, maroon
port, and fine wine color of Zin,
it’s caught many a crumb
and witnessed secrets galore
thing is, I’ve a blue one, just the same
at my feet on floor?
