My Shirt by Kimberly Stutevoss

My Shirt by Kimberly Stutevoss

I remember when I first got my shirt

How excited I was to wear it proud

To this day I still wear it proud around

It's white collar crew neck started the stripes

Down the shirt of gray and white with purple

Designs in the middle distracting the 

Stripes. The fabric is so soft it feels like

My favorite jersey sheets, very comfy 

It's a size small from the new store down the

Street, American Apparel with a 

Non scratch tag that doesn't bother me like

Other tags in shirts have. The shirt great.

It is a perfect combination of

Cotton and polyester making it

My favorite shirt ever. I thought I had lost

It a few months ago but while I was

Cleaning I found it stuffed in the back of

My closet. Dusty and smelly I put

It in the wash. Wash with cold water and

Like colors and then tumble dry it low.

When I pulled it out it was warm against

My skin reminding me of how my mom

Would dump the dried clothes onto me as a

Kid and I would feel the warm embrace me

Like a huge blanket keeping me warm and

Cozy. The sound of the garage door reminds

Me that I have work to get back to like

Homework, but lets be honest I will more

Than likely be watching television

Wearing my favorite striped shirt with purple

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Poem of the Day: Shirt

BY ROBERT PINSKY

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,

The nearly invisible stitches along the collar

Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break

Or talking money or politics while one fitted

This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,

The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,

The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.

One hundred and forty-six died in the flames

On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes—

The witness in a building across the street

Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step

Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.

And then another. As if he were helping them up

To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms   

Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held

Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared

And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,

Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers—

Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.”

Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly

Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme

Or a major chord.   Prints, plaids, checks,

Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,

To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed

By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers

To wear among the dusty clattering looms.

Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter

Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton

As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a Black

Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma

And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied

Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality

Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters

Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,

The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.