Rip into Rags

 
Now I’m seventy-eight, don’t have to saunter into an office
in a dress shirt and stifling tie, only wear Polos on posh occasions,
can usually be seen in a tee emblazoned with words and images:
“I’m the Crazy Aquarian You Were Warned About.”
A muscled man hoisting a canoe above his head. “Whatever.”
A bare-chested man bungee jumping from a bridge.
“Love, Peace, Orangutan.” A railroad steam engine puffing smoke. 
“I’d Rather Be Writing.” They invite strangers to laugh with me
about the sign of the genius and the lunatic, our affinity to primates, 
my voyage down the Mississippi, diving into a New Zealand river,
hopping boxcars from L.A. to New Orleans for  boozy Mardi Gras, 
the joy of alliteration, the favorite word of many teenage girls.

I wear t-shirts day and night, would find it sacrilege to give even one
to a homeless guy hunkered on a bench cradling a puppy and a pint.
They’re security blankets, vestments, second skins that rub 
my Buddha belly for good luck, tickle the gray thicket on my chest, 
pat my slumping shoulders when I need a hearty attaboy,
remind my biceps of bygone games when I belted home runs. 
However cherished, no tee of mine can avoid its fate: flecked ink, 
torn underarms, faded color, permanent stains from pasta, toothpaste.
So, reminded of the eventual severance of my own body and soul, 
there comes a time when I give my shirt its final cleansing and warming 
in a washer and dryer with shorts, underpants, socks, its unsullied kin.
Then, transforming the purely personal into the nondescript, 
I listen to a lament as I grip my friend and rip it into rags.  

After completing their humble household duties (polishing faucets,
dusting spider webs from corners, wiping up spilled coffee grounds),
the rags are free to slumber in a landfill, serenaded by gulls and ravens.
R.I.P., my resolute companion. Requiescat in pace. Rrrip.