I have tried no fewer than six times to write a prose introduction for this week's poem. I wanted to write something about vulnerability, fashion, and how I can't leave the house in some of my favorite clothes because they're "ugly." However, I can't get anything written that's worth reading. So, without further comment, "Grey"
It started as the kind of fitted t-shirt
you might wear on a date, say,
to the bowling alley or firing range.
And so it was until some unfortunate
drops of paint retired it to weekend wear.
Now, threadbare and ripped,
it smells like my perfume
no matter how many times I wash it.
It's stretched and soft,
the most comfortable thing I own.
You've seen me only in my high heels,
silk stockings, dresses, and makeup.
So I hope it will come as a pleasant surprise
when you come home tonight and find me
sitting, legs crossed at your kitchen table, wearing it
and a smile
and not much else.