The Shirt

I am drawn towards fine lines

By an unknown equation of gravitation

As if some Divinely drafted plan contrived:

            A wordless pause sewn

            Into an architecturally correct

            Conversation

            A Whisper Stitched

            By laughter

            To a cuff linked comment

            The blank page of a shoulder seam

            Bent to lean on

            The suble care constructed

            Of that which resides inside the hollowness

            The tucked tales of soap and skin alchemy

            The tailored marks

            Of a masculine olfactory pheromone

            A dry, clean white uncluttered cotton

            Falling lightly

            Starched and casually kept

Resting just right like:

            A still and refined quiet room

            Wrapped in a loud world

            That is tattered and torn

            Piercing tattoos of screaming statement,

            Baggy trend and cool kitsch chaos

A touch

            The hot iron brand of Gentle Man

Which presses smooth

All wrinkles of wit and worry

With the worn order

Of dusted ledge and righted frame

Dressed design's refined reflection

A classic style which bears no name.