to dry. I withered
on the line. The crows
they shat on me. The cat
scratched at my fleeces. Dust

blew in my creases. The wind
whipped me like cream. The sun
not once did gleam. I turned
a spotted grey. The sky spit

me with spray. I waved at the moon,
swimming like a loon in the black sea
of the night, in the shadow of the old
streetlight. My buttons popped like

corn. My sleeves and collar
torn. My stitching all unraveled,
like I've travelled to many shore. But I
rotted like an apple core after I fell.