The Sweater

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?