you're a sloppy stitch
the kind that amateurs create
so they can tell someone they sew.
but you're on that old pair of
grass stained blues
I know- I should have donated years ago

should have given you away
the moment you didn't fit

but I refused to believe
I couldn't manipulate myself
to once again absorb the contours
of what you feel like on my skin.

so you're pushed back, Back
in the back of that rustic oak dresser
and I forget- (well I never remember)
until, once a year, I decide to
clean out everything and trim my fat-

donate all that useless **** I hoard but never use,
and there you are...categorically.
I just can't- could never do it.

You're the material possession that makes me realize
I am just a consumer.