I Remember That Gray Sweater

I Remember That Gray Sweater





I remember the sweater that was my uniform,



gray, with red and white piping.



I wore it every day,



the way some kids wore gold crosses



on little gold chains.



The class smartass asked me if



my mother ever washed it.



I suppose she did, but I never knew when.





I remember summers when school was out,



eating Jello and Swiss cheese,



and working at a burger joint



where manning the grill



made you the king of grease and ketchup





Some things I didn’t know then



I wish I didn’t know now:



About body counts in foreign wars,



about writer’s block when you search



the attic and garage for words



stashed away in dusty boxes,



about the fingers crooked over the keyboard



when they should be caressing a nimble pen.





I wonder what happened



to that gray sweater,



what happened to my mother’s bones,



what happened to worlds



that were small enough to hold,



the sweaty and powerful nights of youth.





I leave behind these faded tokens,



walk out, watch the dying stars,



escape the unspeakable shackles



of that gray sweater.