The Old Shirt – Poem by Bob Bussey
An aging garment recalls the scents and stories woven into its weary threads.
In The Old Shirt by Bob Bussey, a well-worn garment stands proud among younger clothes, carrying the scents and memories of a life once lived.
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Hanging in the closet on a bent hanger. The old shirt held court. Surrounded by youngsters guarding the fort. Pants screaming for attention. Polos wantIng a word of mention. The old shirt stood regal and strong. Wrinkled with wear. Badges indicating someone’s great care. Smells of burning leaves, damp dirt and the like penetrated its core. It knew it would not be there for long. The colors had faded from the sun. Sweat marks stained it’s sleeves. It had seen hours of work in the trees and leaves. The garden recalled the planting and would not be outdone. It was Saturday on a bright, sunny day. The man dressed quickly and grabbed that old shirt. Without a thought about any others. Leaving behind it’s sisters and brothers. Outside it felt so at home. Turning the soil or mowing the grass. These were blessings the old shirt knew well. It was like riding on a carousel. It was as thrilling as catching a prize large mouth bass. The polos watched with dismay. They silently realized it was not their day. The sport coats tried to adjust. They often puffed up with unjustified lust. But the old shirt knew that even after that day. It would be worn again and again. Wrinkled and dirty it was all the same. The old shirt was always up to the game. Waiting among its subjects for the next foray.
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✍️ About the Authors
Bob is a husband, father, grandfather. Cyclist. Gardener. Deer feeder. Yoga novice. Lap swimmer. TRX addict (but they shut down) Poet. He like to interview others and then write articles about new and emerging poets. A hurricane survivor who lives and breathes in Cajun country.
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