I dug through the pile at the foot of the bed

I dug through the pile at the foot of the bed,

looking for something that wasn't quite dead.

I found the old shirt with the collar all frayed,

where the ghost of the laundry has finally stayed.

It’s eggshell or parchment or nicotine tan,

the uniform of a tired-out man.

The sweat-salt has crusted in rings at the neck,

leaving my dignity a bit of a wreck.