When the sleeves fray and the collar falls limp,
We undress our days from their weary seams.
Behind the door, a life, threadbare, clings to a nail.
The body shrugs off its fabric husk,
Slips into the dark’s crisp evening wear,
Ready for the moon’s silent cocktail party.
A shirt, crumpled on the floor, remembers the skin,
While the soul, barefoot, tiptoes into the unknown,
Giddy at the prospect of untried attire.
Death, that thrift store on the corner of Now and Then—
We linger, trying outfits in its solemn dressing room,
Our shadows dressed for an occasion without a date.