The Shirt

I buried it at the bottom of my drawer.
It smells of Insomnia Cookies and a
brisk, April night in New York City with
Your coat draped across my shoulders.

The scent of your cologne has faded,
But I still smell it, intermingled with
The aroma of freshly baked cookies,
Everytime I hear a Ziggy Alberts song.

I buried it at the bottom of my drawer.
It smells of 4am conversations about
Europe and America and drinking my
My first Modelo and a brief, goodbye hug.

The sound of your voice has faded,
But I still hear you say “cheers” to
The cashier every time I order
A CookieWich at Insomnia Cookies.

I buried it at the bottom of my drawer
Because I have a tendency to stain things,
And wear shirts too often and let colors

But you’re still here, keeping me warm,
Sending me The Gaslight Anthem songs
From across the Atlantic when I’ve been
Standing in the rain too long.

You’re still here, a friend who
Makes my blue eyes glow
And outshine these city lights.

One response to “The Shirt”

  1. Give me whiskey glass, a recital and slow evening. You write for heavy drinkers i guess. Poetry as smooth as my last drink


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.