Thursday, October 7, 2010

Pink Flannel Pajama Pants: A Life

I bask in the summer sun on the clothes line
after being pulled from the bottom drawer
of her dresser, examined for stains and holes;
passing muster, into the washing machine
and called back into service, soon, to warm
her skin in the night’s darkness and chill.
I know I am her favorite; I have only grown
softer with age, with her years of sadness, now
much more happiness and content, I often
brush against S or he strokes me while they
watch “24”, her secret vice that I hesitate to
I love her and she loves me; she wears me
every night until even I agree that it’s time
for a shower and so I go in the washer and
hang forlornly in the basement (as I
will not dry outside anymore, nor will she
go out to hang me in the sun) until
she comes to me again, pulling me onto
her petite legs and takes me off to bed
with her once again.

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