Shrinkage

The closet’s full of ghosts in cotton,

of sleeves that haven't seen the sun.

The things I’ve long ago forgotten

are piled up here, every one.

This denim coat is stiff and small,

the seams are screaming at the chest.

I can’t quite zip it up at all,

though once I thought it was my best.

The buttonholes are frayed and white,

stressed by a body I don't own.

It’s much too hard and much too tight,

a cage for someone who has grown.