Row upon row, rack after rack of human molt,
bright castoff plumage of other lives await
resurrection. A riot of color and texture: paisleys,
black watch tartans, leopard prints, and stripes,
each slightly worn to a body’s shape. French blue,
yellow, mauve, chartreuse, lavender and red,
they were too baggy, a bit tight, out-of-fashion,
not-to-taste, or a gift of the dead.
Hangers screaking along metal rods signal
conversation with unheard voices. The Musketeer
shirt with ruffles, a green Rambo tee, and pants
embroidered with butterflies whisper secrets.
Not just size or style, but wear spots from a wallet
or keys and faint odors of tobacco,
perfume, moth balls or cooking brisket seduce
with sudden intimacy.
A New York Yankee cap with a stained sweatband,
straw panamas, felt fedoras, and a feathered
pillbox long for new heads. Orderly ranks
of shoes look forlorn without feet. Pumps,
high-top sneakers, Vibram-soled work boots,
sandals, chukkas, and wingtips speak
with curled toes and eroded heels. Scarves, belts,
and handbags wait impatiently to live again.
Gray, blue, and brown suits hang like shed snake
skins: pin stripe, glen plaid, houndstooth and Harris
tweed. Like a ghost among the coats is a charcoal
flannel—forty short, wide peaked lapels and cuffs—
same as my dead father’s donated a year
and three thousand miles distant. Dare I take
it home, and keep a stranger from slipping into
the empty shell of my father’s life?
