My Shirt’s Intentions

Primed for a gravy stain, my shirt just sat on my torso like it actually wanted to lose its integrity as an unsullied fashion statement. I didn’t notice at the time, but this shirt had been begging for a distinguishing feature ever since I bought it. I recall a close shave with some bleach that nearly poured into the washing machine and ruined every stitch of dark-colored clothing I had, but I was able to smack the bottle away before it could do any damage (at least to the clothes). Ever since then (and this is all in retrospect, as I had no idea of my shirt’s intentions until just a few seconds ago), I’ve felt this primal urge to drip something damning on myself when at the dinner table (or better yet, while eating a precariously-perched meal on my favorite recliner), rendering this once-generic garment wholeheartedly unique by virtue of an unprecedented stain motif.

Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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