The Old Suit

It doesn’t fit anymore,

the old suit I wore.

It’s feathered shoulders

worn out and wrinkled.

But, oh, the shoulder pads,

for those I was glad,

because my shoulders

were crushed and crinkled.

Did I grow too large for it,

the butcher-haberdasher’s gift?

One would think that skin

would stretch, damp, sprinkled.

Oh, now I understand its fit!

Old ways and modes, to wit,

bad habits, I admit,

the old flesh suit is wrinkled.


© CGT, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: