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Photo by Maureen Weber 

The Man in the Blue Denim Shirt

The old shirt,
worn of pocket, frayed of seam,
was very dear to me
as you are dear.
It smelled of you —
a little wind-swept
just a hint of ripe-with-sweat
and something else,
that trademark tang
that no one else could imitate.

Now you have a new shirt,
denim blue, pristine of pocket,
not a seam at risk —
and I am waiting for
the man inside to take possession
of the threads, inhabit them.
I want the pockets stuffed with pens and glasses
buttons undone at the neck
and the one identifying scent
that always calls me home.

By Joan Baragar