Their Forgotten Clothes

Perceiving them, we know
there is a sinister purpose to them.
Our upbringing prepared us
that way.

But it’s wrong, we have learned
to say. We have learned
not to trust such things, to step back
and say,

not for us, not for me. Then
we learn to befriend them
at a respectful distance,
hold them at the length

of a tree’s branches, rope
attached, swinging low. We
recoil at the image,
still sickly embrace it;

but it’s crap, it’s shit
we are taught to say;
we still bring it to mind
every time we are able,

each time we can. We hang
our heads instead. We drape
ourselves on the bodies
and hang with them,

always sure we can slip off
and walk away, wiping our hands
with their forgotten clothes,
looking for other good deeds to do.

It’s crap, it’s shit, it’s doo-doo;
it ought to be outlawed
(but it is, you do know). We hang
our own heads for a moment,

go home to see it on TV.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T