I dress myself in grief today,
this shirt made soft from wear, 
faded criss-cross brown red plaid, 
buttons worried down to nubs,

twelve years since my father died,
another eight when my sister passed,
for all the dear friends who’ve gone away —

for John who fell from the face of the rock, 
for Leon with his concretized lungs, 
and for Susan who missed that critical stop 
sign — 

for marriage binds rotted and frayed,
for all the opportunities morphed into regrets,

I wear the shirt with sleeves rolled up,
mirror confirming what I suspect,

it fits me like a second skin, 
it fits me so damn well.