I remember that grey battered thing
when the wool was tight and clean,
chosen just for her I thought and laughed
outright.
That cardigan was screaming out
in the early bright June sun,
and I threw back my head laughing
as I balanced along a wall.
I didn’t see it again ‘til Easter
of the following year.
Loosely hanging in a darkened café,
on the back of a broken chair.
That cardigan hung so limp
when I ran and hid.
Chuckling in my corner
as it crumpled on the floor.
Strolling from the bed,
my body gently shrouded.
Held in perfect comfort
of floppy, old, loose wool.