Worn Thread

This shirt, old as my first year

in this apartment. Thinner now,

almost transparent, you can nearly

see through the fabric, somehow

it holds itself, still here.

The hem, a soft fray,

a silent map of all

the washings, dryings, day by day.

A comfort, like a whispered call,

a memory, put away.

My fingers trace the collar,

a place where skin met cloth

for hours. The soft dollar

of its worth. Not moth-

eaten, just worn. A slow scholar

of patience. It keeps its shape,

a loose, familiar fit.

A soft white scape

of what's been, what will sit

on skin, until it can't escape.