Sleeves

by Cecelia Hagen

One distant summer
at a shop in Kenmore Square
I bought an orange- and red-flowered
shirt. The first day I wore it
to work I noticed a mark
on the left sleeve,
a daub of Wite-Out.
I could almost feel
the shirt’s previous owner
sitting with me in my chair,
facing the keyboard.

Wite-Out—not
the swirl of a blizzard,
just a small screw-top bottle
with a brush applicator
to blot out typos. I would
blow on the paint to dry it
before typing again;
it wasn’t an act of undoing,
just a simple covering.

And the sleeves—
you’re wondering
what they were like?
Long, flowered,
ending with a belllike
ruffle that fell
open when I propped
my elbows on the desk
to answer the phone
or daydream
about a fast youth,
about what
that would be like.