where do things go?

two shirts are missing–
t-shirts, old like a hippie
still attempting love and peace
in red and blue, not quite
as bright as young, but fits
well and tight like summer sun.

these shirts could be your favorite
if the sleeves were an inch longer
or your belly didn’t push the middle
…or if they weren’t missing.

they could be your lucky shirts
if you believed is such a notion,
but you can’t now. what
could be the consequences of losing a lucky shirt?
you daren’t think.

you remember when you found the shirts,
that old black garbage bag shoved down
in a water-worn cardboard box–
your father’s box. he hadn’t been
in this room for years, though
his room was one room away,
and with every rustle of plastic and cloth
you swore he heard you disturbing his relics
preserved in must and dust.

and you found them
scrawled with some ancient lettering
from what you’d like to think as a “simpler time”–
an illusion, you know, but still…
you set aside the shirts,
gave them a home with laundry,
all those trendy things trying to prove their worth,
but old shirts will tumble like all shirts,
they need not explain to anyone.

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