I reach into my mind for something to wear,
it’s okay if it’s worn, even if it smells,
though a fresh crisp tee would do me well
should I find one while I rummage blindly, touching
items of texture and shape I fail to discern,
until finally from the gray emerges a conclusion
not foregone
till now.

I think I am
missing a sock.

Chagall 2018

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