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Blue Shirt


Every Sunday for forty years, my father
would choose the same blue shirt
to wear to church.
The cloth faded and grew thin
and some of the buttons
went missing.
(You’d think he had no money.)
Almost as an afterthought
he’d put on a tattered tie, then walk
two blocks to the Methodist Church.
Easing his bony frame down
onto the unpadded wood pew,
he’d wink and say, “I’m sure the Lord doesn’t care
what I look like, but only that I’ve come—
and here I am.”
Now, six weeks after his funeral,
I hug his empty blue shirt
and long to hear him say once more,
“Here I am.”

 

Poem © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely the product of my imagination. Any resemblances to my own life are purely coincidental.
 
   
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Waiting

Clothespins photo SoCalJuly2013576a_zpsf2893f1c.jpg
Clothesline at an abandoned homestead, Southern California
 


Desolate clothespins—
why did the washerwoman
leave so suddenly?
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
waiting for white shirts
or perhaps a red apron—
the empty clothesline

 
Text and photo © 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
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