on the line, hung to dry;
you, rag with shearing seams,
your trademark nap giving way
to time. fibers forced out
of you, father, fine fabric
that once adorned royalty
of time, fading as dye.
tenderness is a pattern
in which your yarn was knitted.
quite hard to see when starch
is what you were fed on.
pressed upon now you shrink,
your elegant self soddened;
the small tears remain unseen.
in what language
does the needle of regret
reach to your very strands,
when coursing through your past?
do you tear a little more?
oblivious to stains
being a fabric thing
and since you're rich in blots,
and us in vogue
we tend the errs of present
with wealth from your past,
hoping we ease into time
as boll eases into cotton-gin
easing into finer fabrics.
Dense. Nice one