Remember when the boys discovered
that tearing off the pockets of cloth
from soft white shirts could briefly serve
to replace the further roaming needs
that stretched and tensed from knuckle to nail
before itching back to the wrist? Like thoughts
or feathers they'd fall and drift slipping
from palm to grit under tugs of laughter
and waving threads sadly reaching
back for the suddenly bare breast.
Stitched in the doorway I notice your white
and slender shirt its smooth cascade
exposed and empty serving as no
distraction leaving you; easy and open.
