Ode to an Old Sweatshirt
by Carol Townsend
After thirty years of washings,
your exact color has been lost.
Bold number two pencil hue
now faded to dull ochre.
You are made of ordinary cotton,
stretched out of shape, frayed
at the neck, sleeves cut off, ending
at the elbow. Venerable Friend,
my Good Luck Charm, Survival
Accomplice, you have comforted
me while I mourned my many
losses — partner, daughter, job,
mobility. But, I am undeterred by
your infirmities despite my wife’s
threats to toss you out on garbage
day; wearing you is like being
wrapped in sunshine. The fact is,
I depend upon you even now. I too,
am faded, awkward, with pieces
missing, tethered to cane and
walker. Come, swaddle me, I beg
of you, for I await my own demise
foreshadowed in each thread that
snags, every seam that splits.