Eternal Tailor

Was that my tie? lt might have been
my fathers, with those bold magenta dots,
too loud for me, so frayed and soiled.

The loose threads separate, stick out:
I hate to pull them, but I must.
This sweater-vest is old in any case.

A shoelace opens. WillI let it drag?
My bottom sole's becoming free,
a loose-flapped, almost silly tongue.

This shirt has way too many tears;
the ring around the neck is not my own.
And yes I dont care what they say.

All circles start somewhere, of course.
They grow around my eyes and belly.
There is more and less of me today

than I'm prepared to measure with a tape.
My fingernails and bones are brittle, breaking,
not the strongest fabrics in the world.

Eternal Tailor of this suit of age,
go dress another one, for we are many,
though I can't take comfort from this crowd.