Second Time Around

I will kiss your face until
it stops recognizing me. When that comes,
I too will call Lacuna and
beg for the offending stain to be lifted,
like the best of dry cleaners.
I pray for enough time to properly
wear out this shirt with sleeves,
hope for enough memories captured in
its threads before its edges fray, irreparably
damaged with no chance of
a replacement button or bow. I shop exclusively
in second-hand stores, knowing all the good
things have
had a time around before.

Past owners who have
hung you back on their shelves then
released you for a tax break, I thank them for the
opportunity to cavort in your wrinkled strands,
sturdy and waiting to be picked up again, set aside
amidst drawers of thousands of other multicolored
rags from styles past to be reimagined, recast as
another's outfit. The uses for you may not end with
a stash to the back of the closet,
my dear,
you may be found again.