Monday, 18 February 2013

Clean Shirts

He didn't mean it.
Just didn't know how
to handle it.

We all understand this now.

Two crisp shirts, freshly ironed
hanging on the back of the door.
Both white: the colour
of surrender.

I have no need for ironed
shirts where I'm going now.

The gesture wasn't lost on me.
But didn't stop me
from making my bid
for freedom.

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